PrivateSector

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

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.”

MacGruder stood up and walked up to the stage to be near the screen. A new slide appeared; another map of the world, but certain countries had cute little red stars. He tapped a pointer at the screen, and informed us, “These are the countries and territories with banking and financial regulations that virtually encourage criminal elements and illegal groups-like terrorists-to use their financial institutions. There’s a lot of money havens, aren’t there?”

Janet and I nodded to acknowledge that indeed there were. So what?

“The so what,” Phyllis Carney said, somehow reading our minds, “was, how were we to accomplish this mission the President gave us? So many strategies and techniques had been tried and failed. Intriguing question, don’t you think?”

“How?” Janet asked.

MacGruder said, “Money is their lifeblood. So we started by hunting their money. The dilemma with making dirty money is you have to get it cleaned before it has real value. Laundered, in the vernacular, and then safely invested. And the more you have, the more difficult this is to accomplish. You expect your money to lose fifty percent of its value in the process, sometimes as much as eighty percent. The middlemen and the launderers take great risks and demand prolific rewards.”

Phyllis spun and asked us, “Any questions at this point?”

I thought she was joking. We obviously had questions, starting with, Why are we here? But they’d get to that in their own good time, so I traded a glance with Janet, and we both shook our heads.

She continued, “It was Jack’s brainchild, actually. We decided to pick one of these hidden money laundering organizations. And about four years ago, our DEA found one for us. It was well established in Europe, and was making impressive inroads into the drug trade in Latin America. We made a cursory examination of the organization. An impressive group-smart people, good systems, a very sophisticated understanding of banking, commerce, and… goodness, I hope this isn’t too boring for you.”

“Not at all,” I replied.

She nodded at MacGruder, who continued, “It was just what we were looking for. We cooked up a plan. We would protect this syndicate from the DEA, from the Treasury Department, and from the prying eyes of our counterparts in Europe and Asia. We would, in effect, invisibly nurture it, help it grow and succeed. We would try to put other money launderers out of business, creating market forces that drove the customers toward this syndicate. We would try to turn this syndicate into a powerhouse, the Microsoft or GE of money laundering.”

“Grand Vistas?” I asked.

“That’s the name it uses in its partnership with Morris Networks. Grand Vistas is a subsidiary, if you will. It has many other subsidiaries that go by many other names. The syndicate really does own diamond mines and shipping companies and equipment leasing companies. Also banks and steel mills, and it even has significant ownership of a foreign car manufacturer that’s very popular with modern yuppies. It’s a remarkable money machine.”

The lights suddenly flicked back on. MacGruder said, “Do you see why we can’t let you expose Grand Vistas and its relationship with Morris?”

I looked over at Janet, who appeared horrified. She said, “You nurtured the organization that murdered my sister?”

MacGruder and Phyllis obviously knew this moment was coming, had even anticipated it. Phyllis smoothly replied, “Well, we’re not sure they were even implicated in your sister’s death.”

“Not sure?” Janet snapped. “You mean hope. When this blows up, your asses are going down, too.”

MacGruder calmly said, “Miss Morrow, if we thought they were implicated, you would never have been brought here, would never have heard this briefing, and would never be able to point an accusing finger at this Agency.”

Which I guess was his sinewy concept of a reassurance. Only a CIA person would tell you, on the one hand, to trust him, because he’s letting you in on a secret, while confessing that if he thought it would land him in hot water, he’d never tell you.

And I think even Phyllis noticed MacGruder’s faux pas, and she added, “We’re very sorry about your sister’s death, but we can find absolutely no link or connection between Grand Vistas and her murderer. Our people have looked quite hard.”

Phyllis continued explaining to Janet the Agency’s all-encompassing pursuit, turning over rock after rock, looking for a tie-in. It was such patent bullshit.

Anyway, when she finally paused to catch her breath, I asked her, “And could you tell us how Morris Networks and this money laundering syndicate are connected?”

She nodded at MacGruder, who explained, “The past three years, as you know, stock markets around the world have been tanking. Thousands of companies, like Morris Networks, have found themselves overextended, deeply in debt, credit ratings destroyed, banks refusing to make more loans, their revenues shrinking so drastically they’re on the verge of cratering.”

Phyllis said, “The money launderers haven’t been blind to the rich possibilities. Many of these distressed companies are desperate for capital. The companies face bankruptcy. Their executives confront professional ruin. Grand Vistas was created to be Morris’s white knight. This syndicate has dozens more Grand Vistas, operating in tandem with other corporations. Some are targeting American companies, some are infiltrating other stock exchanges.”

MacGruder said, “What Phyllis is saying is that the criminal cartels, through this syndicate, are making a massive investment in the American and European economies. Through these interlocking relationships they are getting in at fire sale prices, and when the global economy recovers, their wealth will expand exponentially.”

They both paused, and their eyes flicked back and forth from Janet to me. They weren’t sweating or anything, because CIA people get some kind of gene injection that makes them permanently cool and reptilian. But their sphincters were probably the size of pinheads.

Janet said nothing. She appeared either mesmerized by the big empty screen, or so mentally stunned she was left speechless. Having bumped against the CIA before, nothing, I mean really nothing they do or say surprises me.

But the pressing question was, what if Janet and I, or Janet, or I, didn’t want to take a vow of silence? Obviously, we were brought here to have so much bullshit thrown at us that we’d agree to a gag order of some sort. Would we be pumped full of drugs and awaken on the Agency’s version of Johnston Island Atoll? Every month or so a plane would fly over and parachute food.

Perhaps I’m too cynical, but I also sensed something was missing. I mean, when it’s the CIA something is always missing; too often, that something is the truth. But the CIA treasures it secrets. It takes a root canal to get them to admit their real names. Yet here we were, and they were letting us in on a very big secret. Why?

There had to be more. I was sure there was more. But what? Were they trying to cover up an operation that went sour? A rogue operation? Had some of their people failed to keep their fingers out of this syndicate’s cookie jar?

You can go crazy trying to second-guess the CIA, which is so compartmentalized, salami-sliced, and balkanized, it can’t even second-guess itself. I wondered if Phyllis and MacGruder even knew what they were hiding.

“Well?” Phyllis asked.

“Well, what?”

“I think you know.”

“I believe I do.” I suggested, “You’d like us to stop looking for the killer because it might expose or compromise your operation. Did I miss anything?”

“Not a thing.” She smiled. “I think you’ve grasped the issue quite well.”

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.