Mexico Way, page 21
Kreeger said he wanted to keep the line to Harry Butler in reserve, even if Harry was a fellow Texan. He would probably have only one chance to recruit the President, and when he went to the White House—he did say "when," not "if"—he wanted to go loaded for bear.
The line to the Senate chairman was another thing altogether. Kreeger, the man of secrets, had never regarded Congress as friendly ground, but he recognized that, in his present situation, a closed hearing might give
him the chance to put a few things straight about Mexico, and about his chosen profession as well. It would have to be done right, of course. Kreeger must not be seen as the instigator. The invitation must come from the chairman.
Dorothy undertook to arrange it.
She did not tell Director Wagoner, so when the request to interview Kreeger came from the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, the Director was both startled and alarmed—as Dorothy told Kreeger later. When Wagoner called Kreeger in to discuss it, he no longer spoke about vacations from Mexico. On the contrary, he urged Kreeger to get back on the job. He would explain to the committee that pressure of work prevented Kreeger from testifying.
"I'm happy to talk to Congress," Kreeger told him.
"Unless you have some objection."
The Director could not think of one. But he was not at all happy.
Kreeger's second dinner with Dorothy took place at her apartment in Bethesda, the night before he was scheduled to testify, in closed hearings, to a joint session of the Senate and House Intelligence Committees. The evening did not begin auspiciously.
He had spent much of the afternoon in a suite at the Guest Quarters, being grilled by a bunch of congressional staffers. The principal was Joel Stein, the senior staffer on the Senate committee, a fire-hardened witch hunter from the inquisitions of the 1970s. June Sergeant had promised that Joel had mellowed since the days when he treated the CIA as a worse enemy than the KGB, but Kreeger did not see any signs of it.
He was asking himself whether he had made the right decision about the hearing when he pushed the key into the ignition of his rented car. The engine wheezed and died.
He got out and kicked the near-side front tire twice.
He was dog tired, his back ached, and Joel Stein had actually asked him, "How can I believe a word you say?" And now this—everything seemed to be going wrong.
He left the car on the curb, with a scrawled note under the windshield wiper, and rode the subway out to Bethesda.
Dorothy's apartment was a brisk ten-minute walk from the station, in a security-minded high-rise along East-West Highway. Kreeger stopped in at Crown Books to buy her a present, a new Dick Francis yarn. Dorothy loved horseflesh and English mysteries.
Leaving the bookstore, Kreeger sensed that he was being watched. He walked twenty yards before he looked. He found a short, sallow man in a cloth cap— possibly Hispanic, more probably Oriental—affecting to be absorbed in reading the morning headlines of the Washington Times, on display through the window of an orange vending machine.
Kreeger made a dogleg through the lobby of the Hyatt, across the main drag, to be sure.
The man in the cap did not follow him, but a trim man with a pencil mustache walked in and gave Kreeger a hard look before he sloped away toward the gift shop. This one looked Vietnamese.
Kreeger strolled to the phone booths and called Dorothy's number.
"Hey, honey. I'm running late. Don't let the meat loaf burn."
"Meat loaf!" Dorothy snorted.
"I don't want to bring any uninvited guests to dinner. Lima rules, I think. You remember?"
Dorothy did not hesitate. "Where do you want me?"
He told her. She was to park along a busy section of the highway, where there was a center island, pointing toward D.C.
"Opposite Dunkin Donuts," Kreeger specified. "Keep your engine running. I'll see you in ten."
There were plenty of cabs outside. As Kreeger boarded one, he saw a green Taurus pull out behind.
A quarter-mile short of the rendezvous, Kreeger told the driver, "You're going to drop me on the left side, next to the island. Maintain speed until I tell you to brake."
"I cannot stop here, gentleman." The cabbie sounded Afghani, or Iranian. "Is not permitted. Very dangerous."
Kreeger folded a twenty and slid it over the driver's right ear.
"Now hit the gas."
Over his shoulder, Kreeger saw the green Taurus switching lanes in heavy traffic, trying to keep pace.
The Dunkin Donuts sign loomed up on the right.
"Stop now!"
The driver slammed on the brakes, setting off a chorus of horns and squealing rubber. Kreeger hurled himself through the door, crossed the island in two strides, and sprang through an opening in the traffic.
"I think we're both a bit old for this," Dorothy remarked, as he slid into the backseat of her old blue Saab. Without need of instructions, she gunned the engine and sped along the shoulder, watching for a gap in the traffic. "Feels good, though."
Kreeger watched their rear. The Taurus was attempting a U-turn, in front of a Mobil station.
"Hang a right," he told Dorothy.
A few blocks on, he felt sure he had lost his watchers. "You done good, Dot. Now I'm ready for that meat loaf."
"I thought they were Orientals," Kreeger said of the men he had seen following him. "But I may have contracted the admiral's disease—galloping paranoia. I guess Bethesda is full of Latinos these days."
"I think we got half the population of El Salvador.
Will you do this?" She gave Kreeger a bottle of wine and a corkscrew.
"I'm not sure why anyone would bother following me around Washington," Kreeger pursued. "Except to rattle me. Maybe Bill Wagoner wants to send me over to the shrinks, since A1 Glass let him down."
"Maybe someone's worried about you testifying tomorrow," Dorothy observed, after tasting the wine. "You know, you put a needle up Admiral Enright's rear end with those last comments you fired off on the Mexico Estimate. Not for the first time, either. He's not the type that forgives and forgets. He complained to the President about you."
"He did?"
"Roz told me about it today, as a matter of fact. The Admiral did a real song-and-dance routine in the Oval Office about that SOB from Mexico," Dorothy went on. "He can be a real bitch. Did you hear that he's hired a male secretary?"
"Come on, Dot."
"It's the living truth. Yeoman Phipps. Almost too pretty."
The Mollies, fiercely loyal to their own bosses, were always good for gossip about other people's. The scuttlebutt about Admiral Enright's sexual leanings wasn't new to Kreeger. A bachelor of a certain age often attracted rumors of that sort. Kreeger doubted that Enright was an active homosexual, and if he was, what of it? One of the most capable Chiefs of Station Kreeger had ever known had kicked that way. Nonetheless, Kreeger wondered if perhaps Enright's own personal misgivings led him to push for brute force as a solution to America's problems abroad. It was as though he felt he had something to prove.
It also occurred to Kreeger that Admiral Enright could be vulnerable to the oldest kind of blackmail. Was this one of the keys Kreeger was missing?
When Dorothy had finished gossiping about Yeoman
Phipps, Kreeger said, "I don't see why the Director is going along with Enright on this Mexico thing. You know what I found out, Dot? They've set up an office over in the Pentagon headed by some hardline Cajun colonel, and it's being paid for out of the Director's slush fund. Has everyone in this town gone crazy? Or is it just me?"
Dorothy blushed, torn between two loyalties—to her former boss and her present one.
"The Director is under a lot of pressure," she said, treading the middle line. "The President is taking a personal interest in this whole situation."
"I've got another question for you, Dot. I've got a feeling that President Butler and the Director—and a lot of other equities—are going to get burned down in Mexico. Could be I can stop that. But I'll need an in with the White House. Outside channels."
"I already offered you Roz. Hell, Jim, you make me feel I'm still working for you."
"I'm grateful. I'll make it up to you sometime."
"You don't have to say that. I'll always be there for you. Just tell me what you need."
"I'll need access to Harry Butler. Quietly. At the proper time. This may have to be done on very short notice."
"Okay. Tell me how you want to do it."
"God, these men don't stand a chance, do they?"
Severely practical, Dorothy said, "How will you make contact?"
"I'll send you a covering note. With the ANTARCTICA pouch out of Mexico City."
"I won't drop it, Jim."
3
It was nearly eleven-thirty when Kreeger jogged down a stalled escalator to the upper level of the Bethesda Metro complex. At night, almost deserted, the center had the look and feel of a futuristic movie. A lone bus was parked in the shadows beyond the concrete pylons to Kreeger's right. For a moment he regretted not taking up Dorothy's offer for a ride back to his hotel. But surely the men who had followed him earlier were long gone.
Ahead, the entrance to the main escalator leading down to the turnstiles and the trains yawned open like a gigantic storm drain. The escalator sloped down, for hundreds of feet, at a forty-five-degree angle. Kreeger had been told it was the longest—and maybe the steepest—in the world.
Kreeger wasn't inordinately fearful of heights, but tonight he felt distinctly unsteady on his pins as he boarded the escalator. He gripped the side for support. Maybe it was the wine at dinner, or a nervous flutter over the performance he would give on Capitol Hill in the morning, or just the fact that, empty of commuters, the escalator seemed even longer and steeper than he remembered. Below him the plaza was in darkness. Perched on this escalator he felt he was pitching forward into a bottomless well.
His grip on the handrail tightened.
Suddenly, without warning, the escalator came to a stop. Kreeger, however, continued to move forward, causing him to lose his footing. He stumbled down a few steps before regaining his balance.
A power cut? Or had someone pushed the emergency button?
He looked back. On the steps above him, silhouetted against the night sky, he saw a slim man in a trailing coat and a stockier man in a cap—the hoods he thought he had eluded earlier in the evening. They were moving down the escalator steps with enviable agility.
Kreeger didn't stop for an interview. He hurled himself down the stopped escalator. They were closing on him, so near now he could hear their breathing. If he could beat them to the bottom, he could handle one, maybe both. But not if they were armed. And they wouldn't come after him unless they were armed. His heart banged against his ribs. Why didn't they shoot?
It flashed through his mind that they might belong to the Quinteros, and the Mexican drug cartel. If they were hit men sent to get even with him for his role in the hostage swap, they might have been ordered to do something more colorful than putting a bullet between his shoulder blades.
He jumped the last steps. His shoes clacked against the paving. He wheeled, and went for them head down, working his elbows. He got one in the belly, but the other chopped at his neck with something cold and hard. He was down. A shooting pain stabbed through his kidneys like a red-hot poker.
He was flailing with fists and legs, yelling for help.
Something sawed across his windpipe, cutting his air. A chain, between hardwood sticks. A whirlpool swam behind his eyelids, red behind black. His jaws opened and closed, releasing only a dry gurgle. His tongue spilled out. Someone was tugging on it.
"You talk too much," a distant voice was saying. "We teach you better."
For an instant, this seemed remote from him. Then he bit down, and tasted his own blood.
A different voice floated through. "Hey, buddy! You need some help?"
Kreeger rolled and bucked. He was free. He saw his attackers running for the up escalator. Halfway down, on the other side, were five or six muscular teenagers. Their
letter jackets were blue, with buff sleeves. The B was for Bethesda-Chevy Chase High, a few blocks away.
"Stop them!" Kreeger croaked. It took him two tries to get the words out, but he was relieved to find he still had the necessary equipment. "Those guys stole my wallet!"
Some of the kids started running back up the stopped escalator, yelling about blocking tackles. Kreeger's assailants made it to the top first, and got away in their waiting car.
But the kids were pretty quick. One of them got the license number, and offered to call the cops.
"Thanks," said Kreeger. "I'll take it from here." He looked at the boy who had taken the number. Big shoulders, legs like young oaks, a mop of straw-colored hair. "Linebacker?"
"Yup."
"Me too."
"Way to go, Pop." The kid looked doubtfully at Kreeger's ripped jacket and middle-aged spread. "Guess those guys caught you off-guard."
"They weren't playing ball."
4
Was it a murder attempt, or just an effort to scare him off? Kreeger did not have an answer. He remembered the name of those whirling hardwood sticks, joined by a short chain. Nunchaku. An ancient weapon, invented by the peasant farmers of Okinawa, when they were first invaded by the Japanese. Its use had spread, like karate, to many other cultures. He thought of Art Colgate and Bill Enright. Men with Oriental pasts. He could prove nothing beyond a bungled attempt at a mugging. He did not bother to report it to the Maryland police. He could have someone check the license plate later, for curiosity's sake, although he suspected it would lead nowhere.
In the morning, he arrived at the Senate committee room with a bandage around his forehead and blood in his eye. His reporter friend, Joe Cicero, had called him in high excitement, almost before the sun came up, to feed him more information on the secret office that had been set up at the Pentagon under General Gilly. The staff were working up detailed plans for a military invasion of Mexico. General Gilly had sent U.S. militia advisers into Mexico. Kreeger had been able to glean more details from an old Army friend who blamed Gilly for shooting up his own side's position during the Panama operation. At least it was something to work with, and it gave Kreeger something he needed urgently at that juncture: leverage.
Despite his battered appearance, he turned a benign eye on Joel Stein.
"Jeez, what happened to you?" asked the Senate staffer.
"I guess somebody wasn't keen on hearing me testify."
"You've got damn near a full house. That doesn't happen often."
Kreeger had come with a prepared text, but he ignored it after a few minutes. His message was simple. Mexico was going through a period of traumatic upheaval, but the patient would survive. There was an obvious community of interests between Mexico and the United States. The PRI regime was corrupt and incompetent, but it was older than any communist system, and was likely to outlive them. Miliano Rojas was a formidable opponent, but if they were smart, the PRI party managers would co-opt him, or some of his key allies. The President-elect was no adversary of the United States; he was a Harvard man, after all. Certainly, Paz believed in keeping his options open, in terms of foreign policy and investment. But he had given Kreeger his personal guarantee that CIA equities in Mexico would be protected. Kreeger gave a few examples to remind his audience of how important Mexico was to the Agency's counterespionage efforts.
Senator Jonah Pike took the microphone before twenty minutes was up.
"Mr. Kreeger." He pronounced the name as though he were expectorating.
"Yes, sir."
"Seems to me you're out of step with the times. I'm glad that, for once, I can find common ground with the Administration on this. We got us a rigged election in Mexico. Agreed?"
"Yes, sir."
"We got a government that tramples on human rights, and is selling Japan, Inc., the wherewithal to flood U.S. markets with products that will put Americans out of work. And meanwhile, the US of A is being flooded with drugs and wetbacks out of Mexico. Seems a clear-cut situation to me. Either we make the Mexican government shape up, or we put a new one in there. Tell me this, Mr. Kreeger. Did you ever hear of a fellow by the name of Fernando Ramírez ?"
"I assume you're talking about the former Minister of Government."
"Is this Ramírez on the payroll of the CIA?"
"You know I can't answer questions about sources and methods, Senator."
"Well, let me put it to you another way. Do you have—or did you have—a working relationship with Ramírez ?"
"The Embassy had dealings with Mr. Ramírez when he was Minister of Government. If that answers your question."
"How about one Fausto García? Do you have a professional relationship with him?"
"I'm not sure where this is leading us, Senator."
"I'm trying to establish whether our CIA is supporting gangsters and drug dealers in the Mexican government. And whether that is why this Administration continues to tolerate a state of affairs in Mexico that is hurting our businessmen, our working people, and all lovers of democracy
"That's uncalled for, Senator," interjected a liberal Representative from Illinois.
"I also want to examine the credentials of our expert witness," Senator Pike pursued. "Mr. Kreeger. Are you now, or have you ever been, a practicing homosexual?"
There was a commotion in the committee room. Someone cried out, "For shame!" The chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee broke a pencil.
"Senator Pike," he rumbled, "you are doing a grave disservice to these hearings. And you are completely out of order."
"For the record," Kreeger interjected, "I think that I should state that I am not a homosexual. I have been happily married for nearly a quarter of a century."
"If you'll bear with me, Mr. Chairman," Senator Pike bulled on, "I have a question for this witness that may clarify this situation."
"Make it brief."
"Mr. Kreeger, is it not true that, some years ago, you underwent a special medical evaluation—a psychiatric evaluation, in point of fact?"
