Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens
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the jewel of the CIA crown, the Soviet division, heading it before his promotion to DDO. It was a background he did not allow to pass unnoticed. Even before the collapse of the Soviet empire, those in the division noted with satisfaction, Brettlaw had always made a point of offering visitors a beer, and suggesting they tried a Bud. Not the Budweiser from the US corporation bearing the name, but a Budvar from the Czech Republic. Failing that a Zhiguli from the Ukraine.
The report from Zev Bartolski had come in overnight, for his eyes only and requiring him to decrypt it personally.
Brettlaw and Bartolski had joined the Outfit at more or less the same time, done their field training together at The Farm, their explosives and detonation training together. Worked together in the Soviet division when the going was rough and the shit was hitting the fan. Shared everything, the risks on the way in and the rewards on the way out. Which was why Zev Bartolski was now Chief of Station in Bonn.
By eight Brettlaw had finished the decrypt and locked the report in the security safe; at eight-fifteen he was briefed on global developments in the past twelve hours. At eight-thirty he held his first meeting with his divisional heads, at nine-thirty his regular conference – when both men were available – with the Director of Central Intelligence, the DCI. From ten to eleven-thirty he conducted a further series of meetings with his divisional heads, plus section heads where appropriate, the topics covering the responsibilities entrusted to his stewardship.
Satellite intelligence; liaison with intelligence bodies in the new republics of what had once been the Soviet empire; economic intelligence and industrial counter-espionage. The significance of the Balkan conflict on Islam fundamentalism, and the march of Islam north and west. The surfeit of weapons on the world market, the possibility and cost of buying up part of the former Soviet stockpile, and the latest reports on the availability of weapons-grade plutonium on the black market.
Brettlaw’s personal system of operating reflected the Agency’s: each operation, each transaction, was placed in its separate box. Within each box were further boxes, boxes within them. Finance separated from analysis and analysis separated from operations, covert separated from overt. Of course there were overlaps and of course there were areas of shared knowledge, but only where appropriate and only where it would not endanger security. Only the Director of Central Intelligence fully cognisant of all that was happening. And below the DCI only one man knowing and planning where everything came together, where the jigsaw of pieces became one game. The Deputy Director of Operations, the DDO.
The discussions continued: a possible coup in a Central African state, the implications of the success or failure of such a coup and the loyalties of the current head of state and the colonel allegedly seeking to replace him. Developments in Central America, always a delicate issue, and conflict between the former Soviet republics.
All the topics and operations discussed that morning would be reported not only to the White House, but to the politicians on Capitol Hill. Not to all the politicians, of course, but to the select committees on intelligence of the House of Representatives and the Senate, the members of each appointed because of their maturity and sense of responsibility, and their deliberations closed. So that, constitutionally at least, everything the Agency did was accountable.
Except …
That sometimes the politicians who held the Agency’s purse strings would not understand. That sometimes even experienced men and women like those who sat on the select committees might not like what you were required to do. Because in his world you dealt not just with the present but with the future, therefore some of the sides you were required to support and some of the plans you were required to lay might not necessarily be those which the present politicians would like to be identified with. Because the politicians could never see further ahead than the vote that afternoon and how it would affect their chance of re-election.
It was for this reason that Brettlaw had instigated the black projects, for this reason he had constructed the system of switches and cut-outs by which he could conceal from his political masters those projects of which they would not approve, whose funding was hidden in the labyrinth which constituted the modern banking world.
Of course others had done before what he was doing now, and of course he himself did not always like what he was required to do or the people he was required to do it with. Of course he loathed the right-wing fanatics as much as the left-wing lunatics. Understand such movements, however, get the right people in the right places within them, get his people in the key positions, and in ten, twenty, thirty years’ time the US of A would still be safe.
For people like Brettlaw it was not just a dream, not even just a goal. It was the raison d’être, the reason for being, the source and the justification and the whole goddamn rationale for everything. That as the world crept sometimes too boldly into the next millennium, the children of his children – the children of everybody’s children – would be safe. Even though they did not know of him or the role he played in securing that right for them. Even though it was probably best that they did not know.
Of course some would find it strange: the funds to key figures on all sides of the Balkans conflict, be they Serb or Croat, Christian or Muslim; the politicians, military and intelligence people who would decide the future of the Middle East. The same with the black funds being channelled to those who would be the key people in those countries so recently released from Soviet domination and now facing internal and external crisis, even Moscow itself. Plus the plans for the Pacific Basin, the so-called democracies or the self-confessed dictatorships upon which the economic future of the nation depended.
Even things like economic intelligence.
Industrial counter-espionage, that was the buzz word on the Hill nowadays. Stop the opposition spying on America’s industrial secrets. And within the term opposition he included military and political allies. But if even your friends were doing it to you, then what the hell was he doing if he didn’t do it back? Industrial counterespionage was in, however, and industrial espionage was out, so he had to do it through the back door and forget to tell the people on the Hill.
It was eleven-thirty. The man who now sat opposite him, Costaine, was his Deputy Director for Policy, one of the operational people. One of the Inner Circle, therefore part of the black projects. Not the Inner Circle of the Inner Circle, not one of the Wise Men like Zev Bartolski, but there were few men like Zev Bartolski at any time and in any place. Which was why Zev was more than just CoS, Chief of Station in Bonn, why Zev was a cornerstone of Brettlaw’s plans for the future. Why his brief lay far wider than the standard operating orders. Why, in the best tradition of the best in the business, Bonn Chief of Station was little more than a cover.
‘Everything in order?’
‘Yes.’
Costaine was tall, mid-forties, with a crewcut which gave him a fit appearance.
They went into detail. Boxes in boxes, though; Costaine knowing only what he was allowed to know – not even Zev Bartolski was allowed to know everything. And Costaine knowing nothing of the financial arrangements which supported his operational activities.
It was eleven-fifty.
Myerscough was in his early forties and slightly overweight, with light wire-framed spectacles. Myerscough was good, one of the best. It had been Myerscough who had set up the financial network for the black projects, who had chosen the bank through which they would run the funds, then made the contact with the fixer in the bank and got him on side. Established with him the lacework of nominee companies through which the black funds were laundered. But not even Myerscough, especially not Myerscough, knew anything about how the funds were used.
Myerscough was also careful, even had his own little intelligence set-up, people in places like the Federal Bank and Congress who reported on any interest shown in any of his accounts. Not that they realized who they were working for, of course; and not that they looked for specific accounts. More like the old Soviet and East German systems: report on everything. Then Myerscough and his people would pull those in which they were interested. Brettlaw didn’t necessarily like it: Myerscough never had been a field man and never would be, therefore didn’t have the instinct, didn’t know when to shut up shop and