spending most of their resources spying the high-tech way, with satellites and other electronic devices. The electronic information that the Agency collected was valuable, but nowhere near as valuable as a well-placed agent. During that
President’s second year, he was confronted with his first national-security crisis and was
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forced to face the harsh reality that his intelligence agencies could not give him the information he needed.
All of those billion dollar satellites and million-dollar spy planes could not tell him what he needed to know. What he needed was someone on the ground, someone on the inside. A spy. Following that incident, the President put together a task force and asked them to come up with a strategy for correcting this shortcoming. Stansfield was placed on the task force, which he thought was nothing more than a waste of time and energy.
After months of late meetings and lengthy debates, the task force briefed the President on its findings. They told him that America needed to increase its human intelligence—
gathering apparatus on a global scale. They told him it would take a long-term commitment, and that it could be a minimum of six to ten years before they started to see any tangible results from their efforts. To Stansfield’s amazement the President not only agreed, but decided that since the current director of the CIA was retiring shortly, it would make sense to have someone who understood the human side of the business running the Agency. Some people were upset that they had been passed over for the position, but most of them had no choice but to respect the decision.
Stansfield was an icon, a real-life spook. He had earned his spurs running around behind the Iron Curtain risking his life. He had risen through the ranks and put in his time. The phone on Stansfield’s desk started to ring, and he looked over the top of his spectacles to see which line it was. The light blinking on the far right told him it was his private line. He grabbed the phone and said hello. Tom, Brian Roach here. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday night, but I need to run a couple of things by you.” It wasn’t unusual for Roach to be calling his counterpart at the CIA, but tonight he felt a little uncomfortable.
“No problem at all, Brian. I’m just trying to get a head start on the week.
What can I help you with?” After a prolonged pause, Roach said, Tom, I need to ask you a couple of questions, and if you don’t want to answer them, please just tell me.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Tom, do you or does anyone at the Agency possess any information that would lead you to believe the murders were committed for reasons other than those stated in that letter?”
Stansfield’s eyebrows frowned at the question. “Not that I know of.”
“No one at the Agency has told the White House that they have discovered some information that suggests the motives of the killings were something other than those stated in that letter?” Roach asked again, more firmly.
“No, I thought you guys were the ones that came up with that theory.” Roach breathed a long, frustrated sigh.
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“No, we haven’t told the white House anything.”
“Then why are the President and all of his people running around town saying that you have?”
“That’s what I would like to find out.”
“It sounds like they’re up to something.” Stansfield leaned back in his chair and turned to look at a map of the world on his wall.
“Yeah, I’ve been getting the same feeling.” Roach paused and took another deep breath. “Any advice?”
Stansfield thought about the question. He was normally careful about giving his opinion, but he and Roach were of the same cloth. He had a lot of empathy for his counterpart at the FBI. It might be Roach whom they were doing a job on this week, but it could easily be him next time. “I think it may be a good idea to drop a little hint to the media that you have no idea what the White House is talking about.”
Roach pondered the advice for a moment. He liked the direct approach.
“Thanks, Tom, I appreciate the advice. If you hear of anything, please let me know.”
“Will do.” Stansfield set the phone back in its cradle and closed his eyes. Mike Nance and his associates made him nervous. Nance was the real brains over at the White House, the man with the connections.
Garret was sitting in his office with his feet up on the desk and an array of newspapers before him. It was just after six on Monday morning, and his plan was coming along nicely. With a cigarette dangling from his lips he snickered at how easy it was to manipulate the media. The front page of the Washington Post read, “Murky
Conspiracy Rumored to Be Behind Murders.” The front page of the New York Times read, “FBI Thinks Murders Were Committed to Stop President’s Budget.” The
Washington Reader read, “FBI Thinks Letter Is Bogus.”
Garret laughed out loud. It had been so easy. It made no difference if it was made up or not, the damage had been done. The American people would read the headlines and believe what they saw. Public support would rally back to the President, and they would ride it into a second term. Garret shook his head and grinned as he thought of the power he wielded. Garret’s plan was simple. All he had to do was continue to portray the
President as a victim and hope those idiots over at the FBI could catch these people. He smiled at how easy it was to play the power game against principled men like Roach.
While they took the time to decide if a course of action was right or wrong, Garret worried only about being caught. He had no time for petty little laws and technicalities,
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and he definitely had no time for someone else’s morals. He was there to get things done, and to play the
