“I don’t need to remind you about security, Bud,” the DCI began, signaling for Drummond to hand the file to the newcomer, “so we’ll just get to it. There are only two copies of this: I have one and Greg the other. They have never left either of our offices except in our own possession, and when they have it’s only been between our offices. When we aren’t in our offices they are kept in our personal safes. We know each other’s combinations, as does the Deputy Director of Operations Mike Healy, but he is not privileged to this information. Bud, the president is not privileged to it.”
Something was up, Bud thought. The president was cleared for everything. Or maybe…
Landau continued, “Now, to my point. First, you better read what’s in the file.”
Bud opened the folder, looking to both men before he began reading. There were only four double-spaced pages, which he finished in less than three minutes. He spent another two minutes reading over the second page.
His eyes came up from the paper, though not to meet the others’. “Did Jeremy know about this?”
The DCI nodded.
“Jesus… This was dated to last December, and this last part just a month ago. Was the president informed?”
“He was, yes, about the last part, but he vetoed any measures that would have compromised the source,” Landau answered. He knew Bud wouldn’t ask about the source. “Jeremy didn’t even want him informed because it would take away presidential deniability. We convinced him to at least inform him of the risk to himself.”
Bud was incensed. “Who the hell authorized this operation?”
“We don’t know,” Drummond replied. “There was no finding or authorization; no hard copy other than the Eyes Only brief that you’re looking at. Somehow it missed the shredder and ended up in a case file. The officer who the file belonged to — he was stationed in Sicily — left the Agency after the inauguration.” He carefully avoided letting on to the officer’s role in Italy. “There’s no way to tie him to this since it was a stateside report, probably dictated. It ended up in his file…” Drummond shrugged. “…mistake, maybe. A stupid oversight. It’s even conceivable that it was intentionally left unshredded for future purposes, but that’s a paranoid’s view. It’s among the possibilities.
“The best we’ve been able to do is run the trail back here, to this office.” Drummond saw Bud’s lips part slightly as the enormity of the situation continued to sink in. “The typewriter used for the first three pages is right there.” The DDI pointed to the DCI’s machine on the oak rollaway behind and to the right of the desk.
“That’s a photocopy you’re looking at,” Landau informed him. “The original is in my copy of the file.”
“So, what you’re saying, and what this information describes, is that the former director—”
“Correction, Bud,” the DCI interrupted, “the former upper apparatus of the Agency, probably including the DDI at least, and probably the DDO.”
Many had been surprised when the entire executive structure of the Agency had left after the new administration won the election. Now Bud knew why. “Okay. So they initiated a covert operation upon their own authority, without presidential approval or congressional knowledge. And this! Christ, were they totally oblivious to the possible ramifications?”
“Not anymore,” Landau responded. “Unfortunately they’re no longer with the Agency and even if they were, the trail they left is nonexistent, except for my predecessor.”
“Doing anything now would be counterproductive,” Drummond said, shifting in his seat. The whole damn thing made him uncomfortable.
“Counterproductive?” Bud raised his voice. “The action initiated by that…that man more than likely was the direct cause of the president’s death, not to mention the others.”
“Whoa there”—the DCI raised his hand to his front—“as much as you and I and Greg here find this distasteful, we can no more bring this into the open than the president could have taken precautions to safeguard his own life. If we do, a very important asset of ours would likely be compromised, and that would be counterproductive. This asset has given us a hell of a lot of vital intelligence on terrorist movements and intentions, including what just happened. But that is not confirmed — officially.”
“Unofficially?” Bud asked.
The DCI thought for a second before answering. “My predecessor apparently didn’t buy the colonel’s feigned humanism. Neither did I, for that matter, but the solution proved to be more of a catalyst than an end-all. Hell, he got us back. Grammar school-style revenge. Tit for tat. We wagged his tail and he pulled ours clean off.”
“And we take it. Has there been any confirmation on the success of our…” Bud hated to even imply ownership in the rogue operation. “… endeavor?”
“Nothing definitive,” Drummond replied. “But the colonel has been lying low. Very low.”
“There has been a resurgence of activity at the old training camps,” Landau noted.
That figures, Bud thought. “It appears we convinced the colonel that change was futile.”
There was a quiet in the room as Bud again looked down at the open file on his lap. He flipped the pages quickly, wondering who exactly had thought of the plan, and beyond that, what genius had decided to carry it out. This was precisely the reason for controls on covert operations, the process of which was supposed to begin with the president and move quickly to Congress, or at least to the small number of congressional leaders known as the ‘gang of eight.’ It was required by law as spelled out in the Intelligence Oversight Act. Sometimes Congress wanted too much control over executive actions, Bud believed, but this would have been a perfect time for some knowledge of the operation.
“So,” Bud began, “you want me to decide whether the president is to be informed of this. Am I correct?”
The DCI’s answer was silent, but obvious. He detested having to be the custodian for his predecessor’s dirty work. Damn them!
“Your recommendation, Herb?”
“If you inform him there is no deniability. His lack of action against a former government official who has violated several federal statutes can be construed as obstruction of justice. If he does decide to take action then we open up a new can of worms.”
“It’d make Iran-Contra look like The Peoples’ Court” Drummond added.
Bud was angry. “Is it just because I spent twenty- five years of my life as an honorable military officer that that word—deniability—has a decidedly sinister ring to it? Or has it become a concept, something our political leaders must have? A fallback tool instead of that old standby: responsibility? I tell you, gentlemen, this kind of garbage… I don’t know.” There was a long pause. “I imagine we’ll be dealing with this for a period of time to come.”
“Who knows,” the DCI said, lifting his hands in a gesture of wonder or futility. Bud couldn’t tell which.
Bud closed the folder and ran the long edge between his thumb and forefinger. It felt slick, almost wet, and the rough edge, neat and straight from its limited handling, was sharp enough to cut skin. He handed it to the DDI, who looked to the director before returning it to his case.