Burning Angels

22

The President sniffed the air appreciatively. Washington in springtime. Very soon the cherry trees would be in bloom, the city streets lined with pink blossoms and the air thick with their heady scent.

It was a favourite time of year for President Joseph Byrne; a time when the bleak winter’s chill lifted from the eastern seaboard, ushering in the long, balmy months of summer. But of course, for those who knew their history, those cherry trees also embodied a dark and inconvenient truth.

The commonest were a strain called the Yoshino cherry – descendants of some three thousand saplings shipped to the USA in the 1920s, as a gift of eternal friendship from Japan. In 1927, the city had hosted its first ever Cherry Blossom Festival, which quickly became a regular date on the Washington DC calendar.

And then, in 1942, the massed ranks of Japanese warplanes had descended on Pearl Harbor, and overnight the Cherry Blossom Festival had come to an end. Sadly the Japanese promise of friendship hadn’t turned out to be quite as eternal as had been first suggested.

For three years the USA and Japan had been locked in the bitterest of conflicts. But post-war, the two nations had rekindled their friendship. Necessity certainly made for strange bedfellows. By 1947, the Cherry Blossom Festival had been resurrected, and the rest, as the President was fond of saying, was history.

He turned to the two figures beside him, gesturing at the sweeping view, the first touch of pink lighting up the distant treetops, those closest to the waters of the city’s tidal basin.

‘A fine sight, gentlemen. Each year I worry that the blooms might fail to materialise. Each year they prove me wrong.’

Daniel Brooks, the director of the CIA, uttered a few suitably appreciative remarks. He knew that the President hadn’t summoned them here to admire the view, striking though it might be. He’d prefer to get down to the business of the day.

Beside him, the Agency’s deputy director, Hank Kammler, shielded his eyes from the sunlight. It was clear from their body language that the two CIA men couldn’t bear each other’s presence. Other than a presidential summons like this, they endeavoured to spend as little time as humanly possible in each other’s company.

The fact that Hank Kammler was slated to be the next director of the Agency – once Brooks was forced to stand down – made the older man shudder. He could think of no worse a figure to take over command of the world’s most powerful intelligence agency.

The trouble was, for some inexplicable reason, the President seemed to trust Kammler; to put his faith in his dubious abilities. Brooks couldn’t understand it. Kammler seemed to have a peculiar hold over Byrne; an unfathomable hold.

‘So, gentlemen, to business.’ The President waved them towards some comfy chairs. ‘It seems there has been some trouble in what I like to think of as our backyard. South America. Brazil. The Amazon, to be specific.’

‘What’s it concerning, Mr President?’ Brooks asked.

‘Two months ago, seven individuals were killed in the Amazon. Mixed nationals, but mostly Brazilians; none were American citizens.’ Byrne spread his hands. ‘Why does it concern us? Well, the Brazilians seem convinced that those doing the killing were Americans, or at least under the control of an American agency. When I shake hands with the Brazilian president and get asked about this, I don’t like feeling I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about.’

The President left a weighty pause. ‘Those seven individuals were part of an international expedition, the purpose of which was to recover a Second World War warplane. It seems that when they got close to their objective, a mystery force started to hunt them down. It’s the make-up of that force that has brought this to my office.’

Byrne eyed the two CIA men. ‘That hunter force had significant assets at its command, assets that only an American agency could bring to bear – or so the Brazilian president argues. They included Predator UAVs, Black Hawk stealth helicopters, and a fairly impressive array of weaponry.

‘So, gentlemen, is this something that either of you might be aware of? Is there any way it could be the work of a US agency, as the Brazilians seem to be suggesting?’

Brooks shrugged. ‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibility, Mr President. But put it this way, sir: it’s not something I have any knowledge of. I can check and we can reload in forty-eight hours, but I know nothing about it right now. I can’t speak for my colleague.’ He turned to the figure beside him.

‘Sir, as it happens, I do know something.’ Kammler threw a withering glance at Brooks. ‘I make it my business to know. That warplane was part of a project known back then by various codenames. Point is, Mr President, it was top secret then and it is entirely in our best interests for it to remain that way.’

The President frowned. ‘Go on. I’m listening.’

‘Sir, it’s an election year. As always, securing the support of the Jewish lobby is crucial. Back in 1945, that warplane carried some of the top Nazi leaders to a secret South American safe haven. But of chief concern to you, Mr President, was that it was also loaded with Nazi loot. Inevitably, of course, that included a great deal of Jewish gold.’

The President shrugged. ‘I don’t get the reason for the concern. The looted Jewish gold story – it’s been around for years.’

‘Yes, sir, it has. But this time it’s different. What isn’t known is that we – the American government – sponsored this specific relocation flight. We did so in strictest secret, of course.’ Kammler cast a shrewd glance in the President’s direction. ‘And I would respectfully suggest that it should stay a strict secret.’

The President sighed deeply. ‘A deal with the proverbial devil. It could be embarrassing in an election year – is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes, sir, it could. Very embarrassing and very damaging. It didn’t happen on your watch. It happened in the late spring of 1945. But that doesn’t mean the media wouldn’t have a feeding frenzy.’

The President glanced from Kammler to Brooks. ‘Dan? What’s your take on this?’

A frown creased the CIA director’s brow. ‘Not for the first time, sir, where my deputy director is concerned, I am in the dark. If true, sure – it could prove embarrassing. Conversely, it could be a whole crock of horseshit.’

Kammler stiffened. Something in him seemed to snap. ‘I would have thought you should make it your business to know all that happens within the Agency!’

Brooks pounced. ‘So, it was CIA-related? It was Agency business! The goddam Brazilians have you bang to rights!’

‘Gentlemen, please.’ The President held up his hands for silence. ‘I have a very persistent Brazilian ambassador demanding answers. At present it is a private government-to-government affair. But there’s no guarantee that it will stay that way.’ He eyed Brooks and Kammler. ‘And if you’re right, and this is an American-sponsored Nazi Jewish gold conspiracy… well, it looks bad.’

Brooks remained silent. Much as he hated it, the President – and Kammler – was right. If this hit the press, it wouldn’t be the greatest ever launch pad for the President’s re-election. And while he knew Byrne was weak, right now he was about the best they had.

The President addressed his next words directly to Kammler. ‘If, as the Brazilians claim, there is a rogue US outfit involved, things could get very messy. So is there, Hank? Was any of this at the behest of people under our command or control?’

‘Sir, your predecessor signed an EXORD,’ Kammler offered, by way of an answer. ‘A presidential executive order. It green-lit the mounting of certain operations without any need for clearance. In other words, with no presidential oversight. That’s because in certain circumstances it’s better for you not to know. That way, you can always deny knowledge if things get… messy.’

President Byrne looked troubled. ‘Hank, I understand that. I know all about deniability. But right now I’m asking to to be briefed as fully as you are able.’

Kammler’s expression hardened. ‘Sir, let me put it this way: sometimes things cannot remain a secret unless there are agencies striving to ensure they preserve that secrecy.’

Byrne massaged his temples. ‘Hank, make no mistake – if the Agency’s fingerprints are on this, it’s best we know the worst as early as possible. I need to know the fallout potential.’

‘Sir, it wasn’t CIA business.’ Kammler threw a daggers look at Brooks. ‘I can say that categorically. But I am glad you recognise the pressing need for secrecy, and might I suggest that’s in all our best interests.’

‘I’ll let the Brazilians know it was none of our doing,’ President Byrne announced with relief. ‘And Hank, I appreciate the need for secrecy.’ He glanced at Brooks. ‘We all appreciate it. We really do.’

Five minutes later, Brooks drew away from the White House, his driver at the wheel. He’d made his excuses to the President – his schedule didn’t allow him to stay for lunch. Kammler had remained behind, of course. That little creep was never one to turn down an opportunity to schmooze.

Brooks’s driver turned on to the main drag heading south out of downtown Washington. Brooks pulled out his cell phone and dialled.

‘Bucky? Yeah, Brooks here. It’s been a while. How you doing?’

He listed to the response, then laughed.

‘You got me. It’s not just a social call. How d’you fancy a short spell out of retirement? You bored of shooting spuds across Chesapeake Bay? You are? Perfect. What say I drive down to your place, you get Nancy to fix me a bowl of clam chowder, and you and I shoot the breeze for a while?’

He glanced out of the window at the passing cherry blossoms. Kammler and his black operations: at best the guy was a loose cannon; at worst, he and his people were overstepping their controls big time.

With Kammler, the deeper Brooks seemed to dig, the more he uncovered. But sometimes you just had to dig and keep digging, until you found the truth.

And sometimes the truth was very ugly.