Private Sector (46 page)

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.

So I was sitting there, weathering a crisis of guilt, conscience, and conflicted loyalties. I could see absolutely no way for this to be resolved to everybody’s satisfaction—even to
anybody’s
satisfaction. Whichever side I chose was going to cause me great personal angst and loss.

Janet finished mulling and, of course, asked Peterson, “So who murdered my sister?”

“I don’t know.”

“You really don’t?”

“I really don’t.”

“You have suspicions, though, don’t you?”

“Remember where you are, Janet. This building is a vault of suspicions. My day begins with suspicions, my day is filled with suspicions, and the worst of those suspicions keep me awake at night.” He snapped, “Yes—I have suspicions.”

“All right. Help me get my sister’s murderers.”

Sounded like a good solution to me.

But Peterson scowled and said, “The CIA isn’t permitted to engage in operations inside the United States. I’d like to help;I can’t.”

“You mean,” Janet said, “you don’t want to risk having your precious operation compromised.”

“Of course it’s a factor,” he confessed. “The killer is not my concern, however. It’s a domestic matter, not international. My interest is this syndicate, with protecting millions of lives from international terrorism, drugs, and other criminal mayhem.”

And like that—bang, something went off in the back of my head.
What?

Janet said, “That’s too bad. My sister is my concern. And if you think . . .” and so on, and so forth. I hadn’t slept in two nights. I was forgetting something, and I was groggy, and the temperature in the room wasn’t helping. Yet . . .
what?

I sat up. “Wait a minute.”

Janet stopped talking. Peterson stopped talking.

I said, “The cops, Meany—how did they get to my apartment so fast this morning? And what the hell was Meany doing there?”

Peterson shook his head. “Who’s Meany? What are you talking about?”

MacGruder coughed. Phyllis sat and looked ladylike and grandmotherly, like she should have a sewing kit in her lap and should be knitting something; like a handmade garrote, maybe.

“Who’s Meany?” Peterson repeated.

Only after a long pause did MacGruder inform his boss, “I believe he’s referring to Special Agent George Meany, sir. He’s the SAC of the FBI task force hunting the serial killer.”

And like that, another piece fell into place in my head, and I said, “Tell us about the cover-up, Jack.”

He did not respond to that. In fact, aside from some squeaky seats and feet shuffling, the room went completely quiet.

Peterson said, “Drummond, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I nodded in the direction of Phyllis and Jack. “They do.”

So he regarded Phyllis a moment. And then Jack.

After a moment of this, Phyllis suggested, very suavely, “Director, perhaps we should have a word with you . . . in private?”

Janet was staring at me.

But I broke eye contact with Janet, and I established eye contact with Phyllis. I asked her, “When did
you
know?”

She was still making eye contact with her boss, who said to her, “Answer him, Phyllis.” He then added—actually, he emphasized—“I’d like to know, too.”

Well, all this asinine eye contact stuff came to an abrupt end, because Phyllis turned back to Jack and said, “You explain it.” Shit really does roll downhill.

Jack stammered, “We weren’t . . . I mean, when Captain Morrow was murdered, we had no idea . . . we never put two and two together . . . she’d left the law firm, weeks before. The police concluded it was a robbery.”

“What about after Cuthburt?” I suggested helpfully.

“No, no . . . not then either. We made no connection between her and Captain Morrow. Not really until Anne Carrol was . . . well . . . she was SEC, and the FBI discovered the link, actually . . .” He paused, then said, “Only then was it brought to
our
attention.”

Janet fixed him with a frosty glare and asked, “Why?”

MacGruder’s eyes darted at Peterson, who nodded. He said, “Trojan Horse is a joint operation between us and the FBI. We handle the overseas parts, the FBI handles the domestic pieces. Our FBI counterparts have an operation inside Culper, Hutch, and Westin. A lot of work went into setting it up. It’s critically important and must be protected.”

“What kind of operation?” I asked.

“You’ll recall that I mentioned the syndicate is exploiting distressed companies. In fact, Morris Networks was one of the first”—he shook his head—“actually, it was the first we
detected.
That discovery made us nervous.”

“About what?”

“How the syndicate knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Understand, corporations experiencing financial turmoil, that are hemorrhaging cash, they are extremely secretive with this information. If word leaks, their competitors know and jump on them, their stock tanks, and bankruptcy becomes virtually unstoppable. Consider Exxon, WorldCom, Global Crossing, or any of the others that have been in the news in recent years. Their CEOs knew . . . their chief financial officers and legal departments knew. The rest of their people had no clue they were teetering toward bankruptcy. Even Wall Street and their bankers were kept in the dark.” He added, “So, how was our syndicate cherry-picking these companies? How did it know to target them? It had to be acquiring insider information.”

“Go on.”

“We gave that a lot of thought. It’s very sophisticated, really. You see, when corporate officers know a financial train wreck might be unavoidable, what do they do? They face a legal nightmare, lawsuits from bondholders, from stockholders, from banks, possibly SEC investigations, and so on. Many corporate officers and board members confront personal liability. Their risks are enormous. Those risks have to be scrutinized, managed, even minimized, and, hopefully, well in advance.”

I said, “So they consult lawyers with expertise in these matters.”

“Precisely. In advance of a bankruptcy declaration.”

I thought about this a moment. I asked, “You’re saying the firm is . . . what? A talent scout for the syndicate?”

“That’s what I’m saying. Troubled companies approach your firm for advice and preparations, and the syndicate is notified.”

“Who’s notifying it? The whole firm? Everybody?”

He chuckled. “Only in a John Grisham novel, Major. No, not everybody.”

I didn’t chuckle. “Who?” I asked.

“We’re not sure.”

“But you said—”

“I said the FBI is running an operation.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning the FBI has a mole inside the firm.”

“A mole?”

“An undercover agent.”

“I know what a mole is. Who?”

“That’s considerably more than you need to know.”

There was a long pause before Phyllis explained, “We have to
know
what companies this syndicate is getting involved with. Consider your friend Jason Morris. The precise details are cloudy, but we’ve been able to speculate how it happened.”

Jack picked up on her cue and explained, “Several years ago, Morris found himself in dire trouble. His personal fortune, all of it, was invested in company stock. His business was sharply contracting, the entire telecom sector was suffering an overcapacity crisis, and the banks turned merciless. He therefore approached your firm for preparatory bankruptcy advice.”

“Why my firm?”

“We don’t know. But somebody in the firm informed the syndicate of this, Jason Morris was approached, and he made his deal. The money exchange works through capacity swaps. It’s a shell game, of course. Grand Vistas ships him cash, and he ships them stock. Because the transaction occurs under the accounting rubric of a capacity swap, it escapes the scrutiny of an outright loan or sale.”

There was silence for a moment as we all considered what this meant.

As though we were too stupid to figure it out, Phyllis commented, “Really, it’s brilliant. The money gets laundered every time Grand Vistas sells the stock. Very large amounts of money. And if Morris Networks’ stock rises in value, Grand Vistas and its clients make scads more money.”

Well, the realities were ever-shifting inside this room. The floodgates were open, and Janet and I were being deluged with disclosures and information—just, notably, not the specific information I had very clearly asked for.