Читать книгу Capitol Crimes - H.L. Katz - Страница 13

Eight

The Capital Beltway, it could be argued, was the site of the worst congestion in the entire country. Mike Ferguson sat in it on his drive back from the Capitol following a frustrating meeting with Senator Reid McCombs. McCombs was President Conroy’s closest ally in the Senate and it is assumed that when Conroy wants to get something off his chest, McCombs does the dirty work for him. The one great thing about being a field agent, Mike thought, was not having to deal with people like McCombs. Mike could never understand why legislators like McCombs, who claimed to have the Country’s best interests at heart, constantly behaved as if that concept was the last thing they had on their mind.

“In my opinion, the money we are wasting with this new covert ops thing is shameful,” McCombs had told Mike, who sat across from him in the Senator’s office.

Mike had been through this drill plenty of times with numerous lawmakers over the past six months, however when it came to McCombs, Mike got the sense that he was acquiring some actual insight as to how the President felt on the matter. If anyone thought to press him on it, Mike would have to admit that he enjoyed playing possum with politicians a little more than he should have and this get together with McCombs would be no exception.

“What exactly is it that you object to, Senator?”

“All of it, actually,” McCombs said with disdain in his voice.

“So you object to us pursuing the bad actors who get their rocks off terrorizing innocents all around the world?”

“Bad actors? According to who? You, Mr. Ferguson?”

“I am only one person and others are involved, but yes, I do get paid to make those type of decisions,” Mike said.

“You do? Under what constitutional authority?”

“Excuse me, Senator?” Mike was quite familiar with this dance. It was the same one he had tangoed to with the various other politicians who considered the CIA a useless relic of the cold war.

“You heard me,” McCombs said. The Senator reached to his right and picked up a conveniently accessible copy of the Constitution, then opened it up to a random page. “Please, Mr. Ferguson, point me in the right direction. I have my Constitution right here,” he said as he shook the pamphlet in his hand.

“Senator, I have some critical work that needs my attention,” Mike said, trying to remain respectful. “There are some nasty people looking to do severe damage to our country and it would be my preference that they didn’t.”

McCombs jumped to his feet with the Constitution still in his hand, and railed away at Mike. “Do you think I’m playing games with you? You don’t think I’m asking you important questions? Are you not the Deputy Director of Covert Operations?” McCombs stepped out from behind his desk and walked towards Mike in a huff, but still remained far enough away to keep a safe distance between them, just in case. “I would like to know under what provision of the Constitution do you get your authority? Can you at least tell me that?”

Mike stayed calm and collected as he responded knowing it was sure to piss off the Senator. “I believe it is Congress, sir.”

“Bullshit. Don’t play games with me, Mr. Ferguson. I am Congress,” McCombs said in his blustery best. “As the Majority Leader of the Senate, I can bury your entire disgusting operation.” McCombs was prone to grandstanding like this, which could occasionally be effective on ten-second soundbite TV, but not with anyone who knew he was talking out of his ass.

“I am pretty sure our authority comes from Congress.”

“Not the Constitution? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Actually, Senator, our authority comes from the Executive Branch and we serve at the will of the President, sir, but of course you control the funding and can cut...”

“You’re goddamn right we do,” McCombs said, interrupting him loud enough that it brought the secretaries in his outer office to a standstill. “I promise you we will re-assess every dime we’ve spent on your criminal activity.”

Mike had little time for Congressmen who put their careers in front of the safety of the country, but had even less patience for people who wanted to bury the Agency. Especially those who didn’t have the guts to say so in public. McCombs and Conroy made a big deal in the press about their slashing of the Intelligence budgets when Conroy was in Congress and President Watkins controlled the White House. When something went wrong, like the Khobar Towers debacle, they were the first ones to blame the very agency they themselves had gutted. “Senator, if you would like to discuss policy issues, Director James would be more than happy to do so. As for me, I really need to get back to work and keep this country safe.”

“You keep this country safe from the bad actors,” McCombs said, using air quotes with his fingers when he mentioned the words ‘bad actors’. “But who will keep the country safe from the likes of you?”

Mike raised up a bit in his chair and clenched his jaw, but that was all the emotion he would allow McCombs to see. “Senator, I was okay with you making me wait thirty-five minutes for this meeting. I was also okay when you questioned my authority and even with you calling me in here to say things that should be said to my boss. I get all that. But, I’ve got serious matters that need my attention including some really bad people trying to harm you, me, and everyone else in this country. So with all due respect, Senator, you are wasting my time and I’m about done with it.”

McCombs was back in his seat behind the safety buffer of his desk about to say something when Mike stood up and startled him for a brief moment. The Senator gathered himself long enough to rip into Mike, one last time. “I do not speak for the President,” McCombs said, an obvious lie to a trained body language specialist like Mike. “But you should know he is not happy. When budget talks come up, it will be he and I that cut your budget in a substantial way, and it will be a joy to do so. The world is different now. You and those in the CIA like you who fly around the world chasing ghosts that don’t exist will have to find another way to get your nuts off.”

Mike turned and headed for the exit without saying a word. He opened the door and was all ready to leave, but paused in the doorway. His gut told him to keep walking, but his head told him that just wouldn’t cut it. McCombs gazed at Mike’s large back as he stood silent for a moment. The Senator was obviously pleased with himself. He had delivered the President’s message with a clear blow to the head. However, when compared to what else the President had in store for Mike and the Agency, it amounted to a small jab with plenty follow-ups to come. The smirk on the Senators’ face evaporated quickly after Mike turned back around and closed the door behind him. Mike walked up to the desk that separated the two men and leaned over it, his nose inches from the lawmakers’ face. “Senator, in my line of work, I can’t afford to make mistakes. If I am right 99.9% of the time, I’m a failure and people die. Unlike you, being wrong at my job is not an option. So do what you want with my budget, I really don’t care to argue about it,” Mike said. “But know one thing. If something goes down, I will throw you under the bus without hesitation. On top of that, I will mention you specifically by name and that you claimed to be doing the President’s bidding.”

Senator McCombs jumped to his feet, but stayed safely behind the desk. “Go ahead and try that. I’ll deny it publicly over and over again and then it’s my word against yours. Who do you think they’ll believe? A sitting US Senator or a CIA operative in charge of Covert Operations?”

Mike straightened up and pulled out a pen from his shirt pocket. He clicked down on it. “…And then it’s my word against yours. Who do you think they’ll believe? A sitting US Senator, or a CIA operative in charge of Covert Operations?” Mike watched McCombs slump in disbelief as he listened to his own voice being played right back at him through the speaker located in the middle of the pen.

Mike smiled and slipped the pen back in his shirt pocket. “Honestly?” Mike said with a smile. “I’m thinking they’ll believe me. You have a good day, Senator.”

• • •

As Mike pulled onto the George Washington Parkway, he was interrupted by the beeping of his cell phone. He’d missed a call from Akiva. He knew there would be no message, that wasn’t Akiva’s style.

Mike first met Akiva at an intelligence briefing in Langley soon after he had finished his time at ‘The Farm’ and was awaiting assignment, which he already knew would be somewhere in the Middle East. Akiva Solomon, an Israeli Mossad agent built like a brick house, was without question the smartest man Mike had ever met. He also happened to be the only person to ever kick Mike’s ass in a fight. Akiva had challenged Mike to a sparring session soon after they were first introduced and proceeded to teach Mike a lesson in street fighting he would not soon forget.

“What the hell was that?” Mike asked Akiva, who hovered over him with an instant icepack in his left hand. Mike was sprawled on the ground unsure which had taken a worse beating, his ego or his body.

“Lebatt b’tachat.”

“To kick ass?” Mike said. “You mean an ass kicking?”

Akiva was surprised with his linguistic skills. “Atah mayvin ivrit?” (You understand Hebrew?)

“Kayn, ani mayvin.” (Yes, I understand.)

Akiva smiled at the young man who appeared to be a quick study. “How you know Hebrew?”

“I learned it from my sister who dated an Israeli guy. I was maybe ten or eleven…he taught me some, I studied the rest.”

“You know many languages?” Akiva asked, as he handed Mike the icepack he’d been holding, then reached into his bag and pulled out another for himself and placed it on his right temple.

“I know a few, I guess.”

“How many is a few?”

“Eight,” Mike said.

“You know eight languages?”

“Yeah. It’s not something I share with people because they think I’m a freak or something, but languages and dialects always came easy to me,” Mike said resting the icepack on his left eye. “Dude, what was the stuff you were beating on me with?”

Akiva sat down on a stool near Mike’s head. “What do you mean ‘stuff’?”

“Was that Ju-jitsu?”

Akiva smiled. “Ahh…no, no, Krav Maga.”

Mike had never seen anything like it before. “Where’d you learn that?”

“Israeli Defense Forces, everyone in the army knows it.”

Developed and refined by Imi Lichtenfeld, Krav Maga incorporated years of military training Lichtenfeld had acquired and combined them with the skills he learned as a boxer, wrestler and gymnast. Translated as contact combat, Krav Maga was adopted by the IDF in 1948 and Lictenfeld was its head instructor, teaching thousands of students not only quick strike self defense, but an aggressive offensive attack that rendered most opponents powerless within a few short moments. Mike Ferguson’s introduction to the discipline was as eye-opening as it was painful.

Mike tried to sit up, but reconsidered when he felt his ribs attempting to separate from each other. Instead, he relaxed on the ground and continued to nurse his wounds. “Do they know it as well as you?”

Akiva laughed at the question. “No, I know it better.” Akiva leaned over and held out his hand. Mike grabbed onto it and took advantage of his new friend’s generosity. He sat up, but kept the icepack pressed firmly against his left eye. “Can you teach it to me?”

“It is different than your karate training,” Akiva said.

“How so?”

Akiva moved his hands as he spoke “It is more hand-to-hand combat in street. Karate teach power in the punch, we teach less power. Quick strikes take opponent by surprise.”

“I like that. Would you teach me?”

“You know Spanish?”

“I do,” Mike said.

“Will you teach me?” Akiva asked. “You teach me Spanish, I teach you Krav Maga. We have deal?”

“B’seder.”

Akiva smiled hearing Mike agree in Hebrew. “Mitzooyan,” Akiva said. (Excellent.)

They spent the next two weeks in intensive training before both men had to head out to new assignments. Akiva went back home to Israel and his work with the Mossad while Mike was sent to Libya to collect intelligence on a splinter cell operating freely inside that country and from there to his post in Saudi Arabia. Mike had eventually become proficient at Krav Maga, a tool which served him well on numerous occasions. The two spies had become fast friends and their relationship eventually became more personal than professional. Whenever possible, both men would negotiate their schedules to spend some time together, even if only for a day or two.

Mike had spoken to Akiva less than a month earlier, so it came as a bit of a surprise to hear anything from him so soon afterwards. He parked his car in the CIA parking lot, called his friend, then headed to his office.

“Habbibi, mah shlomcha?” (My friend, how is everything with you?)

“Mike, my friend, everything is good by me. How is by you?”

“Great.”

“I sent you something. Check my outbox. You have to see, very important,” Akiva said.

A great number of communications in the clandestine community were usually done through “dead drops.” A dead drop is a form of contact between an intelligence agent and their case officer that does not require them to meet directly. Instead, the information would be left at a pre-assigned destination, or inside an object somewhere out in the public, such as a mailbox, tree stump or a sewer. Over the years, the two friends had devised a system where letters, both English and Hebrew, and numbers, were interchangeable in emails or word documents and the two men were the only ones who knew what the code meant. Moreover, to retain security, they often changed the system every few months, so what the number four represented one month, might be totally different the next. These messages sent from dummy accounts, were deleted every few weeks, and never sent directly to the other party. Instead, they were sent to a bogus address and because that email account was inactive, the email was left in the sent box of the person who sent the email. Mike or Akiva would then go into each other’s dummy account, enter the password and find the intended message in the Sent box.

“Will do,” Mike said as he unlocked his office door and headed straight for his desk.

“I have to go. Be careful, my good friend. Shalom,” Akiva said.

“Shalom.”

Mike sat down and logged into his secured CIA account. He proceeded to sign into Akiva’s dummy account, entered the password, then checked the Sent box. He needed less than a minute to decode the message. He printed it out and placed it on his desk then leaned back in his chair, immersed in thought. A few moments later, he straightened up and searched for something else on his desk. Within a minute, he found what he was looking for. He studied it, thought about it for a moment, then put it back where he found it. Mike turned back to his computer, Googled something else, and after reading the results, printed the information and left it on his desk with the two previous pieces. He picked up one more report, read a few lines, stared at the print on the page then placed the memo next to the other three he had set to the side. He rechecked each transcript three or four times then sat in silence when he realized what he might be dealing with. Mike picked up his cell phone and called his partner.

“Todd, I think we got a problem.”