Chapter 1

Off in the distance, the distinctive wail of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer could be heard intermittently through the clatter outside.  The room's two occupants ignored the appeal.  At least one of the men in the cramped room, with file cabinets ringing its perimeter, was not a man of much faith at all.  On the other hand, and in another way of viewing the matter, he was indeed a man of faith.  A faith placed firmly in his ability to stay alive all these years.

The constant traffic noise, and street hawkers peddling their wares, could be heard even though the office was at least ten floors above the fray.   The window shades had already been pulled down and were partially closed to allow some slivers of light into the dingy, smelly room.  Finally, the man conducting the review reached over and closed them completely.  Overhead, a dilapidated ceiling fan croaked remorsefully.

Unlocking the middle file drawer, the younger man, and resident of the ancient building, pulled out several very old files and placed them on the metal table in the center of the room, wedged between the cabinets and the door. There was precious little vacant space left beside the table, the two chairs and the cabinets. The older man, a famous banker, saw that the contents in the files had been neatly rebound and nicely tabbed for ease of reference.  Someone, perhaps his contact here in the room, had done the work in the last few weeks and been thumbing through the contents again. The individual pages were yellowish and had a dog-eared quality and some of the print on the correspondence was fading or almost gone, particularly on the copies of the original cables.  Well, why not after so many years?

The musty smell of the three large files permeated the room. That was okay, since the room already had its own dank smell.  Let one smell cancel out the other.  The lighting in the room was bad too.

"It took us awhile to get everything together.  You may use the tabs for easy reference. This file has the overview of the situation and the others have all the old correspondence from letters and cable transcripts."  His visitor could see that a faded TOP SECRET had been originally stamped on each file cover. 

"Coffee?"   There was a military air about the man running the show.  No nonsense.  The older man nodded.  Getting up abruptly, and knowing that a little privacy was in order, the younger man made no further comment and opened the door heading to the coffee bar down the hall.  There was a guard posted outside the door, although it wasn't necessary.  The banker had given his word of honor that he wouldn't duplicate or take any of the file contents with him.  In any event, he would be searched thoroughly before leaving the building.

There was a tremor in the man's hands as he opened the file containing the summary and analysis of events.  It had been so long ago, a virtual eternity by now but, still, the issue mattered deeply to him and had been an integral part of his life since a young man.  The events in question, which he would study in much detail today, were stains on the family's honor.  After so many years beyond the painful circumstances, he wanted only one element: a truth that would begin to set him free.

A series of negotiations had cleared the way for today's meeting, after the fateful invitation appearing out of nothingness.  That no trust had existed previously between the parties was almost comically evident.  But the imperative for truth, not trust, prevailed in the end, and the man did not want to die without knowing the truth, even if it might pain and wreck him to the core.  And beyond the truth, perhaps another vital element might prevail: hope.

He had the day to review the files and ask questions.  He skimmed through much of the first file opened because he was already aware of the bulk of the circumstances discussed.   It did make him angry, though, that the take on the events was so biased.  Well, what did he expect?  Virtually everyone discussed, including his father, was dead by now and had receded into the mists of time.  Only in his teens at the time of the events, the businessman was painfully aware of how their course had altered and, in some respects, wrecked the remainder of his life.  

Through the rest of the day, enduring interminable cups of coffee and bathroom breaks in which, embarrassingly, the guard accompanied him, he pored through the correspondence files which had been arranged chronologically.  He had no appetite and didn't eat.  Thankfully, at least he could smoke in the room.  The host finally relented and even cracked open the window with the dusty blinds to allow a little air in the room.  Otherwise, the younger man sat across the desk impassively.  He was very familiar with all the file contents.

Poring through the correspondence had been excruciating.  The visitor could now see that both parties had bungled the situation.  Certainly, his side was not blameless.  The fog of war.  Churchill had been right on that concept.  At critical moments, key misjudgments had occurred and communications faltered. Wrong assumptions and signals had been made or passed, respectively, enough to screw everything up. The disappointment and disillusionment reeked in the cable transcripts.  It made him sick to his soul.

There was another battle, a personal one, being fought as well.  The banker had been wrong all these years.  Not his fault really, but his instruction had been faulty; at this point he was too tired to care whether it had been deliberate or convenient.  He sighed and closed his eyes, not caring what the other man thought.  He had wasted much of his life and resources.  Anger mounted within, it was almost too much. 

Why hadn't he been told the truth?  Perhaps, the truth had been unbearable to tell, even to him.  It was better to live a lie.  Or, alternatively, the complete truth could not be told because all dimensions were not known at the time.  After all, he now had the luxury to see the complexity of the situation from a wide-angle lens.  His instruction had been only one version of the truth.  That made him feel a little better, drawing some comfort that the instruction perhaps had not been deliberately slanted, though pierced with an emotion that supercharged its interpretation.  An interpretation then force fed into his veins flowing with the family blood and honor.

Would it have mattered if he had known everything?  Survival was also an issue in his native land, a most preeminent one.  And could he believe everything in front of him?  It appeared authentic.  But what had not been revealed, elapsing as it had so many years ago?  Shredded or burned or forgotten?

The only thing he really knew was that he was completely miserable and desperate to break out of the prisons of the past and present.  He almost regretted even coming in today for the pain to follow.  But if he did nothing, would he feel any better?  He seriously doubted it; he came in today to seek an excuse liberating him to plot a new course.  In the moldy pages, he had found that excuse in all its maddening perversity, only that the sickening ghost of what might have been would also torture him.

Overhead, above the groaning of the fan, the unmistakable sounds of a flock of pigeons could be heard, cooing and scuttling about on the roof of the decrepit building.  For a brief moment, the man reviewing the files would have exchanged places with one of the simple-minded creatures there.  No prospect of heaven waiting, of course, but not of hell either and, for the present moment, that would have suited him just fine.

Closing the last file simply, he tiredly looked up and nodded that he was finished.  With the little time left, the banker would attempt a final course correction in his life.  He could not right the wrongs committed in the past nor really mitigate them.  The only avenue left was to continue in them no longer.  No excuses, explanations, existentialism or exoneration were available.  He had only one move now; which gambit would he select?

But could he really trust these people, represented by the man with the military air across from him, and look past so many years and the attendant confusion and bitterness?  They had taken their good sweet time to show him their version of events, either through malice or a naive assumption that his side had accepted blame.  So this was supposed to be a trust building exercise?  He might accept the truth, but he could hardly be expected to accept that it had been delivered so late.  In fairness, however, he had hardly come to the light either.  In the light one might be killed; he also knew a little too much of other things himself.






The familiar, ruggedly handsome profile, photographed around the world a million times, etched itself against the backdrop of late afternoon sunlight, filtered by the windows behind the desk in the most famous office in the world, the Oval Office.  Gazing at the familiar sights, as so many of his predecessors had done in the past, the tall man permitted a satisfied smile to crease his face during the few private minutes he had to himself before he had to dash upstairs and get ready for the state dinner tonight.

For so long the man had been silent.  Just now, he finally comes out of his hole with the temerity to challenge the most powerful man on earth.  Why now, so conveniently before the upcoming elections, when he had been silent before?  Flushed out by fear or visions of blackmail?  Well, he was toying with the wrong guy.  The President was glad and relieved to see him come out into the open, into the sunlight where he could draw a bead on the miserable wretch.  The President had lived in fear so long that it was a palpable relief just to talk to the adversary and have the opportunity, once and for all, to eliminate the obstacle.

The man with the handsome face, brownish hair with streaks of gray interspersed, steely blue eyes and a determined set in his jaw, was not a coward or a leader with whom one might trifle or bluff.  Other leaders on the planet had already made that mistake.  Moreover, the sissies in Europe had learned a few things from the leader of the free world.  But he might be forgiven for experiencing just a shade of relief that one major irritant in his life might be finally on the verge of vacating the premises.   Something that had been bothering him for years now held the prospect of closure.  Before the reelection campaign cranked up, before the hordes of silly journalists, snooping around for endless dirt, came his way again.  One couldn't always keep a finger in the dike.  Now he had the opportunity to seal it off permanently.

And it had all come his way out of the blue.  They had tried before to do something about the director.  But nothing could be pinned on the elusive figure.  Others had tried also, under different rationales and motives, and the Chief Executive had wished them luck and fervently hoped for their success.  But to no avail, the director had ninety lives. 

There was the other alternative, admittedly.  The other horn of the dilemma could have been pursued instead.  However, even more problems would have been created in the latter's wake.  There were fewer problems associated with the director who was, in the final analysis, also a loose cannon.  So, therefore, it was really an easy decision to focus on him.

The director.  That was his idea and Hastings had gone along.  The thought of the title and its background pushed a cold chuckle through the President's lips.  Yeah, the title had other benefits as well, primarily in avoiding being too close to the individual.  Appending the term lent an air of amusement, disdain even, slight condescension, anonymity, and dehumanization to the subject.  A most beneficial process when the subject very likely would be terminated.  The only good director is a dead one.  He had told that to Hastings, the Director of National Intelligence (DNI), who found it humorous.

The beauty of the situation lay in the fact that the director initiated the opportunity in the first place, replete with his inane stipulations, not so veiled threats, creating the very conditions for successful conclusion.  The man brought the rationale for his demise to the table.  Finally, they would have a rationale that could be proven.

Hastings mistakenly thought the director would just come in for a cup of coffee.  Instead, they got his two stupid stipulations and threats.  Why, said Hastings?   Why did the man have to muck it up?  The only person in the Oval Office knew why. 

Okay, the director wants to goose me in the process.  Force me to play along and do his bidding.  He knows my hot button, the pucker point to light me up.  Fine, let's play for a while and see if he ever, just once, sticks his head out of the hole long enough to be chopped off.  Two stipulations, his terminology of course, as if he were calling the shots.   The first one was okay, could be useful.  The second one?  Well, I'll see.  Could be an opportunity for a double out of this.  But nothing will be done for the director.  No reward at the end and certainly not the chief requirement for his participation and alleged cooperation: U.S. guarantees of his personal freedom and safety.  I knew it would ultimately come to this.  I was lucky it didn't happen the first time.     

Yes, he would play along for a while to see how things went.  There might be pleasant surprises along the way.  It was beneficial to at least see some of the stipulation data first and see where the director was going.  The country might benefit from that.  But make no mistake: they would play along only to the extent the exercise was useful to the country prior to the director being bagged.  Actually, there was already ample justification for the man's elimination from which to draw cover, at least in the President's mind.  And he wasn't looking for numerous reasons, although he would wait a little longer until the first installment of stipulation data came in.

There had been a time when terminating the director would have been considered a law enforcement issue, rather than tinged with terrorist overtones.  The country had been too squeaky clean in the past to get down in the gutter.  But that was before 9/11.  Now the country and its leader would flame the vermin in any gutter found.  In fact, the President lusted for gutters, yearned for them to be filled with their tired, huddled masses of teeming terrorists yearning to be free for paradise.  The country and Commander in Chief were most happy to provide them a one way ticket to paradise.

Well, I deserve some luck for a change.  Some of the other projects hadn't worked so well.  But many others had worked splendidly, so go ahead and give Hastings and Collins some credit.  At least they keep their mouths shut.  They had better.

Notwithstanding Bin Laden and his ridiculous Egyptian doctor friend, the country had improved lately in nailing some notable terrorist leaders.  Much of the success the country didn't even know about.  A lot of bad guys put away forever.  Hastings deserved the majority of the credit.  The director was talking to Hastings, the snake charmer, a tough and nasty intelligence chief.  The DNI had been a former CIA chief and operative with sniper expertise under his belt.  The President wanted Hastings to engage with the director, toy with him and then let down the hammer.  With Hastings, he felt a lot better about this game.  Hastings could deliver the goods even if there were bumps in the road.  If Hastings had been running intelligence during Afghanistan, instead of serving as newly appointed ambassador to one of the emerging Eastern European nations entering NATO at the time, Bin Laden wouldn't have had a carcass left to feed to the birds.  And Iraq might have been handled differently.

The President glanced at his watch.  He never had any time for himself.  In a few minutes he had to go upstairs and get ready for a state dinner, which he could care less about, honoring a country deserving to be thrown in the ashcan.  However, he could relax better tonight knowing a dialogue had been opened with the director.  It was far worse not to know where he was or what he might be doing.

Of course, things could go wrong.  They were playing with fire here.  Bad fire.  It was all a calculated risk. Certainly, the possibility existed that the country might be hurt badly in the process, even if the director was collared.  The rest of the world might suffer as well, not that he cared.  But, he had been looking for an opportunity and here it was.  The country might suffer or he, the President, might suffer.  It was an easy decision.

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