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.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
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.
