Presumably Adams had also escaped from the cottage with Faith Lockhart. He had not reported in to Buchanan about this, which was why Buchanan had left that phone message. Buchanan was obviously unaware of what had happened last night. Thornhill would do all he could to make sure this state of affairs continued.
How would they run? A train? Thornhill doubted it. Trains were slow. And you couldn’t take a train overseas. Now, a train to an airport was a more intriguing possibility. Or a cab. That seemed certainly more likely.
Thornhill eased back into his chair as an assistant entered with some files he had requested. While everything at the CIA was computerized these days, Thornhill still liked the feel of paper in his hand. He could think much more clearly with paper than when he was simply staring at the pixeled screen.
So all the usual bases were covered. What about the unusual? With the added element of a professional investigator, Adams and Lockhart might be fleeing under false identities, even disguises. He had men at all three airports and the train stations. That would only go so far. The pair could easily rent a car and drive to New York and take a plane there. Or they could go south and do the same thing. It certainly was problematic.
Thornhill hated these sorts of chases. There were too many places to cover and he had limited manpower for these “extracurricular” activities of his. At least he had the advantage of operating more or less autonomously. No one from the director of Central Intelligence on down really questioned him as to what he was up to. Or if they did, he was able to dance around any issue they threw at him. He got results that made them all look good, and that was his biggest weapon.
It was much better to coax the runners out, bring them to you, which was certainly possible with the right sort of bait. Thornhill just had to come up with that bait. That would take some more thinking. Lockhart had no family, no elderly parents or young children. He didn’t know enough about Adams yet, but he would. If the man had just hooked up with the woman, he couldn’t possibly be willing to sacrifice everything for her. Not just yet. Other things being equal, Adams was the one to focus on. And they had a communication link to him by virtue of knowing where he lived. If they needed to get a discreet message to him, they could.
Now Thornhill’s thoughts turned to Buchanan. He was currently in Philadelphia meeting with a prominent senator on how best to further the agenda of one of Buchanan’s clients. They had this particular fellow on enough felonious activity to make the man literally break down and plead for his miserable life. He had been a special pain in the ass to the CIA, nickel-and-diming them to death from the high perch of his Appropriations Committee seat. The payback would be so gratifying.
Thornhill envisioned walking into all these mighty politicians’ offices and showing them the videos, the audiotapes, the paper trails. Of them and Buchanan plotting their little conspiracies, all the details of the future payoffs; they so eager to do Buchanan’s bidding in return for all that money. How greedy they looked!
Good Senator, would you mind very much licking my boots, you whiny, squealing excuse for a human being. And then you will do exactly as I say, no more, no less, or I will crush you underfoot faster than you can say “vote for me.”
Of course, Thornhill would never say that. These men demanded your respect even if they didn’t deserve it. He would tell them that Danny Buchanan had disappeared and left these tapes with them. They weren’t quite sure what to do with the evidence, but it appeared that the tapes should be turned over to the FBI. It seemed an awful thing to do; these fine men couldn’t possibly be guilty of these sorts of things, but once the FBI started its feeding frenzy, they all knew where that would end: prison. And how could that possibly help the country? The world would laugh at us. Terrorists would be emboldened in the face of a supposedly weakened foe. And resources were so tight. Why, the CIA itself was understaffed and underfunded, its responsibility unfairly curtailed. And could you fine people perhaps do something to change that? And would you please do so at the expense of the FBI, the very bastards who would love to get their hands on these tapes so they could destroy you? Starting with getting them the hell off our backs? And we thank you very much, you fine public leaders. We knew you’d understand.
The first move in Thornhill’s grand plan would be to have his new allies find a way to completely remove the FBI presence from the Agency. Next, the operations budget for the CIA would be increased by fifty percent. To start. In the next fiscal year he would get serious about the dollars. In the future, the CIA would only report to a joint intelligence committee instead of the separate House and Senate committees it was confronted with now. It was far easier to co-opt one committee. Then the hierarchy of the U.S. intelligence-gathering agencies needed to be straightened out once and for all. And the director of Central Intelligence would be at the very top of that pyramid. The FBI would be as far down the totem pole as Thornhill could bury it. And the tools of the CIA would be considerably strengthened. Domestic surveillance, the covert funding and arming of insurgency groups to overthrow enemies of the United States, even selective assassination, all would come back as weapons of choice for him and his colleagues. Right that minute Thornhill could think of five heads of state whose immediate deaths would leave the world a better, safer, more humane place. It was time to take the shackles off the best and brightest and let them do their jobs again. God, he was so close.
“Keep up the good work, Danny,” Thornhill said out loud. “Pour it on until the end. That’s a good man. Let them almost taste victory right before I take their lives away.”
Grim-faced, he looked at his watch and rose from behind his desk. Thornhill was a man who loathed the press. He had, of course, never granted an interview in all his years at the Agency. But as senior as he was now, he occasionally had to undertake another sort of appearance, one that he equally detested. He had to testify before the House and Senate Select Committees on Intelligence on a series of matters involving the Agency.
In these “enlightened” times, CIA personnel gave more than one thousand substantive reports to Congress in a year’s time. So much for covert operations. Thornhill was able to get through these briefings only by focusing on how easily he could manipulate the idiots who were supposed to be overseeing his agency. With their smug looks, they posed to him questions formulated by their very diligent staffs, who were more knowledgeable about most intelligence matters than the elected officials they served.
At least the hearing would be in camera, no public or press allowed. To Thornhill the First Amendment’s rights to an unfettered press had been the biggest mistake the Founding Fathers ever made. You had to be damn careful around the scribes; they looked for every advantage, any chance to put words in your mouth, trip you up, make the Agency look bad. It deeply hurt Thornhill that no one seemed to really trust them. Of course they lied about things; that was their job.
In Thornhill’s mind the CIA was clearly the Hill’s favorite whipping boy. The members loved to look tough in facing down the super-secret organization. That really played well back home: FARMER-TURNED-CONGRESSMAN STARES DOWN SPOOKS. By now Thornhill could write the headlines himself.
However, today’s hearing actually promised to be positive because the Agency had scored some serious PR points lately in the most recent Middle East peace talks. Indeed, largely through Thornhill’s behind-the-scenes work, the Agency had overall fashioned a more benign, upstanding image, an image he would seek to bolster today.
Thornhill snapped his briefcase shut and put his pipe in his pocket.
Off to lie to a bunch of liars, and we both know it and we both win,
he thought.
Only in America.
“Senator,” Buchanan said, shaking hands with the tall, elegant-looking gentleman. Senator Harvey Milstead was a proven leader with high morals and strong political instincts who offered thoughtful insight on the issues. A true statesman. That was the public perception. The reality was that Milstead was a womanizer of the first order and was addicted to painkillers for a chronically bad back, medications that sometimes left him incoherent. He also had a worsening drinking problem. It was years since he had sponsored any meaningful legislation of his own, although in his prime he had helped enact laws from which every American now benefited. These days when he spoke, it was in gobbledygook that no one ever bothered to check up on because he said it with such authority. Besides, the press loved the charming guy with such genteel manners, and he held a very powerful leadership position. He also fed the media machine with a flow of appropriately timed juicy leaks, and he was quotable to a fault. They loved him, Buchanan knew. How could they not?
There were five hundred and thirty-five members of Congress—a hundred senators plus the representatives in the House. Well over three-quarters of them, Buchanan estimated perhaps a little generously, were decent, hard-working, genuinely caring men and women who believed strongly in what they were doing both in Washington and for the people. Buchanan termed them, collectively, the “Believers.” Buchanan stayed away from the Believers. Touching those folk would only have earned him a quick trip to prison.
The rest of the Washington leadership were like Harvey Milstead. Most were not drunks or womanizers or shells of their former selves, but, for various reasons, they were ripe for manipulation, easy targets for the lures Buchanan was tossing overboard.
There were two such groups that Buchanan had successfully recruited over the years. Forget Republicans and Democrats. The parties Buchanan was interested in were the members of the venerable “Townies,” and the group Buchanan had labeled, only somewhat tongue-in-cheek, the “Zombies.”
The Townies knew the system better than anyone. They
were
the system. Washington was their town, hence the nickname. They had all been here longer than God. If you cut them, their blood would run red, white and blue, or so they liked to tell you. There was another color Buchanan had added to that mix: green.
By contrast, the Zombies had come to Congress with nary a stitch of moral fiber or whiff of a political philosophy. They had won their place of leadership with the finest campaigns that media dollars could buy. They were fabulous on sound bite TV and in the confines of tightly controlled debates. They were, at best, mediocre in intellect and ability and yet delivered the sales pitch with the verve and enthusiasm of a JFK at his oratorical best. And when they were elected, they arrived in Washington with absolutely no idea what to do. Their only goal had already been achieved: They had won their campaign.
However, despite this, the Zombies tended to stay in Congress because they loved the power and access that came with being an incumbent. And with the cost of elections going through the stratosphere, it was still possible to defeat an entrenched incumbent . . . in the same way that it was still theoretically possible to climb Mount Everest without oxygen. One only had to hold his breath for several days.
Buchanan and Milstead sat down on a comfortable leather couch in the senator’s spacious office. The shelves were filled with the usual spoils of a longtime politician: plaques and medals of appreciation, silver cups, awards made of crystal, hundreds of photographs of the senator standing with people even more famous than he; inscribed ceremonial gavels and bronzed miniature shovels symbolizing political pork brought to his state. As Buchanan looked around, it occurred to him that he had spent his entire professional life coming to places such as this, hat in hand, essentially begging.
It was early yet, but the man’s staff was busy in the outer suite preparing for a hectic day with Keystone State constituents, a day laced with lunches, speeches, appearances and pop-in-and-out dinners, meet-and-greets, drinks and parties. The senator was not up for reelection, but it was always nice to put on a good show for the people back home.
“I appreciate your meeting with me on such short notice, Harvey.”
“Hard to refuse you, Danny.”
“I’ll get right to it. Pickens’s bill is looking to knock out my funding, along with about twenty other aid packages. We can’t let that happen. The results speak for themselves. The infant mortality rate has been cut seventy percent. My God, the wonders of vaccine and antibiotics. Jobs are being created, the economy is moving from thuggery to legitimate business. Exports are up by a third, and imports from us are up twenty percent. So you see it’s creating jobs here too. We can’t let the plug be pulled now. Not only is it morally wrong, it’s stupid from our side. If we can get countries like this on their feet, we won’t have a trade imbalance. But you need reliable sources of electricity first. You need an educated population.”
“AID is accomplishing a lot,” the senator pointed out.
Buchanan was intimately familiar with AID, or the Agency for International Development. Formerly an independent agency, it now reported to the Secretary of State, who also more or less controlled its very substantial budget. AID was the flagship of American foreign aid, with the vast majority of funds flowing through its long-standing programs. Every year it was like musical chairs to see where AID’s limited budget dollars would end up. Buchanan had been caught without a seat many times, and he was so weary of it. The grant process was intensive and highly competitive, and unless you fit the template set up by AID for the programs it wanted to sponsor, you were out of luck.
“AID can’t do it all. And my clients are too small a bite for IMF and the World Bank. Besides, now all I hear is ‘sustainable development.’ No dollars unless it goes for sustainable development. Hell, last time I looked, food and medicine were necessary for life. Doesn’t that qualify?”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Danny. But people count pennies around here too. The days of fat are over,” Milstead said solemnly.