‘I trust that asshole O’Connor’s enjoying the delights of Gakona,’ the Vice President said, indicating Wiley should take a seat.
‘It’s about as close to Siberia as I could send him, Mr Vice President. He’ll stay there until I work out something more permanent.’
‘Good. Now, have you seen the latest claims by that Weizman bitch?’ Vice President Montgomery flung a copy of the latest edition of The Mayan Archaeologist onto the elegant white coffee table. The cover was dominated by a striking photograph of Dr Aleta Weizman, standing beside the Pyramid of the Lost World in the jungles of Tikal, Guatemala. The headline read: Weizman Claims CIA Involvement in Guatemalan Genocide Allegations made against the School of the Americas
Wiley knew the reality behind that headline lay deep in the Guatemalan jungle, and his reasons for ensuring that the truth didn’t surface were far more pressing than those of the Vice President. Should he brief Montgomery on the diaries the CIA’s man in San Pedro, the ex-Nazi commandant of Mauthausen, had kept? Diaries that were now missing -
‘I need hardly remind you, Howard, that we go to the polls shortly,’ Montgomery thundered on, ‘and right now we’re up to our bootstraps in hog shit in Iraq and Afghanistan. The last thing the President or I need is the media spotlight back on Intelligence or secret prisons and water-boarding. Or the fucking Guatemalans, for that matter. Or the Mexicans, Venezuelans or anyone else from that garbage dump down south. Nixon got it right about Central America. Nobody gives a fuck about the place.’
‘I agree, Mr Vice President. It’s a shit box.’
‘I don’t care how you do it, but put some heat on this Weizman woman. Find out who controls archaeologists’ licences and send them a donation from a grateful nation with the proviso she gets blacklisted. Anyone who thinks that someone other than Columbus discovered America doesn’t deserve to have a licence. And put her under surveillance. If she even looks like exposing our operations in Guatemala, Paraguay or anywhere else, get rid of her. Meantime, keep the CIA out of the fucking media.’
‘Leave it to me, Mr Vice President. By the time I’ve finished with Weizman, and O’Connor for that matter, the AP numbers will look even better.’ Wiley and Montgomery had both been greatly encouraged by an Associated Press poll that had claimed twelve per cent of Americans had either never heard of the CIA or couldn’t rate it.
As the DDO left the vice presidential residence later in the evening, a move was already taking shape on Wiley’s sinister chessboard. It was a move that would require the recall of O’Connor from Gakona, but it would eliminate Weizman permanently.
24
U nlike his predecessor, Howard Wiley always kept his office door closed. O’Connor, ignoring the protestations of Wiley’s secretary, knocked firmly and walked in. The first thing O’Connor noticed was the modern furniture. His previous assignment had involved a Muslim terrorist threat against the Beijing Olympics. Back then the DDO, Tom McNamara, had been an understanding ally, pressing for negotiation with the Iranians and the Syrians, rather than committing the United States to another bloody war they couldn’t win in the Middle East. The cracked and torn brown leather couches McNamara insisted on keeping had been almost welcoming; but they had gone, along with his old boss’s familiar greeting of ‘Come in, buddy. Have a seat.’
‘You took your time getting here, O’Connor. Sit down,’ Wiley ordered without looking up, gesturing to a small straight-backed chair as he continued to read from a crimson dossier that lay open on his polished desk.
O’Connor smiled to himself. Offering someone a small chair and then ignoring their presence was the classic authoritarian bully tactic, designed to make people nervous, and was often employed by individuals who were highly insecure themselves. O’Connor glanced around the refurnished room. The office was lit by a number of tasteful table lamps, and the panelled walls were decorated with oils of the Civil War. Myriad photographs of Wiley with various visiting dignitaries were scattered around the office. Amongst the most prominent was that of Wiley shaking hands with George W. Bush, and one with the Vice President at the School of the Americas, but it was the framed photographs on a side table that caught O’Connor’s eye. The first was a photograph of Wiley and Pope John Paul II, together with an archbishop he couldn’t identify. In time he would come to know Salvatore Felici very well.
Unlike the archbishop, the man with Wiley in the second photograph was instantly recognisable. A very young Wiley was standing outside Washington’s Mayflower Hotel with a smiling J. Edgar Hoover, Director of the FBI. The DDO continued to ignore him, and O’Connor wondered about Wiley’s early relationship with Hoover. Howard Wiley, O’Connor knew, had never married. He’d started his career in the FBI, and his stellar rise had attracted widespread comment in an old-fashioned media not renowned for their criticism of a public hero like Hoover. Within six months, a young, wet-behind-the-ears Wiley, with virtually no field experience, had been appointed to Hoover’s personal staff at FBI headquarters.
‘I’ve got a new assignment for you, O’Connor,’ Wiley said finally.
‘And I was just getting used to Alaska.’
The DDO glared at O’Connor. Howard Wiley was known throughout the intelligence community as ‘the Weasel’. He had a square face, a long thin nose and a high forehead. His reddish, spiky hair was brushed back without a part. Barely five-foot four, Wiley was vertically challenged, and O’Connor wondered whether Wiley’s ruthless arrogance was a product of Napoleon Syndrome, an early close association with J. Edgar Hoover, or just a case of having the DNA of an asshole. Probably a combination of all three, O’Connor thought wryly. ‘Our file on Dr Aleta Weizman,’ Wiley said, pushing the slim file across the desk. ‘She’s an archaeologist working for that tin-pot Guatemalan government we silenced a decade ago. Archaeologists should stick to digging up old bones. This one’s got a very big mouth.’
‘I would have thought that with bin Laden and his Jihadists, not to mention the Taliban, we’ve got more important things on our plate than obscure archaeologists, Howard.’
Wiley’s face turned the colour of his hair. ‘I’ll decide what’s fucking important around here, O’Connor,’ he exploded, clenching his fist and slamming it on the desk. ‘Just find out everything there is to know about this Weizman bitch, then silence her!’
‘That seems excessive. She might be on the front cover, but The Mayan Archaeologist ’s probably got a print run in single figures. Hardly mainstream news.’
The DDO glared at O’Connor again, the veins near his temple clearly visible. ‘You’re skating on fucking thin ice, O’Connor. The Vice President’s pretty pissed over your suggestions about negotiating with terrorists, so I suggest you leave the analysis to me, and do as you’re fucking told!’
Wiley’s words confirmed O’Connor’s suspicions. This was coming right from the top, and the weasel was keeping to the letter of the CIA’s manual of assassination. Never write anything down.
‘Weizman is attending some archaeological circle wank in Vienna next month,’ Wiley continued, his eyes still blazing. ‘And you’re going as someone who has an interest in Mayan archaeology, so I suggest you get busy on the jargon.’ Wiley drew himself up to what he could muster in height, indicating the meeting was at an end. O’Connor suppressed a grin. Wiley looked shorter standing up than he did sitting down.
O’Connor left Wiley’s office deep in thought. A sixth sense, honed by countless hours on assignment in the field, told him there was more to the Weizman case. Wiley was hiding something, but what? O’Connor knew the involvement of the CIA and the White House in Guatemala had been long and bloody. Had Dr Weizman somehow stumbled onto the CIA’s operations in Central America? He headed for the CIA’s archives.
Howard Wiley stared out the window of his office for several minutes, his anger still at boiling point. The Vice President was right: O’Connor had a bad attitude – he could not be trusted. As he opened his usual full inbox of emails, Wiley knew he would need a back-up plan to ensure his orders were carried out. He clicked open an email from Salvatore Felici, now a senior cardinal at the Vatican. Greetings, my friend, and congratulations on your new appointment – very well deserved! The Holy Father asked me to pass on his thanks for last week’s briefing on the Middle East. Most informative, and rest assured the Cardinal Secretary of State will do everything he can to support your president’s efforts in this troubled region. In the meantime, we are increasingly concerned over Central America and the threats this region poses to the Holy Church, and we are dismayed by the groundswell of support
