Avery Dick Walks Small
An Avery dick Adventure Story
Avery M. Dick
The Larson Agency
Fairfax, Virginia
1Chapter 1
Swallowing Pickled Herrings
I must be a hungry glutton for punishment because I was seated and ever-so-politely holding my begging bowl in front of me, hoping for another handout from the Director of Investigations and Counterintelligence, Diplomatic Security Service, U.S. Department of State. If you don’t mind, I’ll drop the plenipotentiary and extraordinary accolades that went with the title. That would be too much entitlement for anyone to stomach in one sitting.
However, speaking of entitlement, I was coming out of retirement to work once again for my employer of last resort—although a resort didn’t quite describe my predicament and circumstances. This was to be no winter wonderland vacation—unless you counted all the downhill events I would be facing. I was flat broke and needed money to support my precarious standard of living. The cost of staples---booze, cigarettes, and comfort women---had all become too pricey to afford on my meager government pension. While I fully embraced consumerism as an American value, I wasn’t a cheap date these days by any measure.
Jersey Briggs accommodated my pathetic plea for more porridge by dropping red herrings into my bowl, but I didn’t like their taste one bit. They were canned and smelled sickly sweet. Fishy would have been a good descriptor, if I could stoop to pun. Regardless, I would let the kippers stick in my throat for awhile and keep a bright smile on my face suggesting I’d really enjoyed them. I certainly wasn’t going to bite the hand that was offering to feed me once again, but I wasn’t going to swallow my chum whole either—the bones hurt too damn much!
In my desperate straits, I wasn’t too proud to accept a handout, but even I resented an obvious slight-of-hand job from a former colleague and sometimes friend. While he wasn’t looking, I quickly scanned the room for a convenient spot to deposit Jersey’s mealy-mouthed drivel. Unfortunately, the potted plant was too far away so I would have to spit up the remains and discreetly put them in my jacket pocket when he wasn’t looking. That was no problem whatsoever since I was used to doing vile and discourteous things having spent 23 years working for the State Department—this little act would be deceptively easy.
The question was why? I thought. Why would Jersey spin a story he damn well knew I wouldn’t buy and eventually unravel as unadulterated bullshit? The answer was all too obvious—he was told to tell the tale the way someone else wanted it told. He had to hew to the bureaucratic script—no matter how lame it sounded to both of us. It wasn’t so much what he was telling me since I had accepted much of it at face value. It was the stuff he was leaving out that bothered me most.
The devil is in the detail as some inane State Department pundit might say. That someone had to be a superior in the DS chain-of-command. Jesus, senior management must be tone deaf, as well as legally blind. Jersey’s obligatory adherence to the party line wasn’t the least bit surprising because deviation was not condoned in the building—at least not officially or during business hours.
I chuckled to myself at the thought. Jersey must have cringed when he was ordered to serve-up this stuff on such a pitiful platter. It was simple, plain crock—not the silver-plated stuff that he typically dished out. He should be the one choking on the pieces of crappy kipper and not me. Just to play it safe, I would stay mum—she could always keep me quiet with a sharp slap across my mouth if I were too outspoken. Fair enough, but how come I never enjoyed eating my own words? I felt the same way about Jersey’s force-fed helping of pabulum. It was almost more than I could swallow.
However, I didn’t want to get fired before I got back on the department’s gravy train and headed for the lounge car. According to Jersey, the choo-choo with my name on it was pulling out of the station and I’d better get aboard if I ever wanted to work for DS again. Okay Jersey, I think I can, I think I can, I amused myself. I tended to stay on track even while being insulted by the childish lingo he was slinging in my direction.
But we both knew that I was The Little Engine That Could—that was why I was here. He needed someone to pull the outfit’s train. I didn’t mind carrying the department’s water, or pulling its train, or saving its bacon, because each chore paid the same. The buck had to stop here though. I was desperate for money and Jersey sensed my pecuniary neediness—All aboard folks!
At the line’s railhead, Jersey was all about locution and locomotion. He spewed the needless pomp and circumstance under the circumstance. In this instance, those things meant he was demonstrating the fine arts of bullying and posturing. At times, he could be a huge pain in the caboose—to stay with the present train of thought.
However, I thought I could prevail, or outlast him, in this game of wills and bullshit—whichever came first. After all, I was a trained professional and conducted myself accordingly; therefore, I duly continued to politely listen to his dully spoken monologue. I kept a straight face and didn’t wink, blink or nod. However, I started to drift off to sleep as the train slowly pulled away from the station. It wasn’t long before my conductor awoke me with his shrill nasal tones—next stop, Never-never land, he loudly called out in my mind.
“Avery, I know we’ve had our little differences in the past, but we need to put all the baggage behind us and work together this time—there’s just too much at stake to do otherwise. I know you’re not much of a team player, but you’ve got to cooperate and coordinate your investigation with headquarters—that means me, specifically, like it or not. I’m your point-of-contact in Washington—the designated case officer and, more importantly, your boss. Don’t hold out on me now—I need to keep the higher-ups in the loop.”
No doubt, I thought. They were much safer in Chicago than Washington because the incidence of backstabbing in the department was much higher than the Windy City.
“You’d better toe the party line or I’ll sack you before you can bag your first fucking paycheck.”
I viscerally responded to his manly, macho threat by opening my eyes. He had gotten my attention with that line and I sat a bit more erect in my chair. My ears had pricked-up at the sound of sex and money being mentioned in the same context. I was a slut when it came to either one, but I felt especially cheap and horny when the words were intertwined like lovers. Jersey now had my rapt or vapid attention depending on what he was saying at any given moment—my State Department induced ADD was acting up again.
Jersey continued telling his tall tale: “She was being driven to class at the International School of Delhi. The ISD caters to foreign kids whose parents comprise the top echelons of the international business community and diplomatic enclave in the Indian capital. Reportedly, the embassy chauffeur followed a predictable travel routine. He should have known to vary the routes and times. As you know very well, it’s still one of the best and easiest countermeasures against being jacked or, in this instance, napped.”
I didn’t correct him, but he should have added “Hi kid” to the beginnings of the words. Those might befit the circumstances. Maybe that was what the bad guys first said to the ambassador’s daughter as she was being forced out of her vehicle at gunpoint. It made mannerly, grammatical sense to me.
“Maybe the driver thought it was a sobriety checkpoint,” I interjected. “The cops are really cracking down these days.”
He shot me a dirty look and rolled his eyes at the same time. He could simultaneously chew gum too—Jersey was a multi-talented DS agent. That was how he ascended so quickly in the department hierarchy. That, and the fact he was good at kissing ass at the right time and in the right place. The place was easy to locate but the timing was more difficult. He had to find targets of opportunity that could enhance his career—he had an uncanny knack for such things. Regardless, Jersey was a natural butt-boy, a successful agent and a rising star in the organization.
“It’s just basic Security 101 stuff, even absent of any specific security concerns. Obviously, we still don’t get the message through to some” Jersey mentioned to no one in particular. He ignored my interruption and clever theory of the crime.
He was certainly right about the message though. Following department security procedures and protocols were a huge pain in the ass. They conflicted head-on with our innate senses of independence, individuality, and invincibility. Nobody was going to tell us how to suck eggs. Anyway, it was something that was always going to happen to someone else, as I recalled.
One of the biggest misconceptions about terrorists was the notion that they were all created equal—they were most definitely not. For every trained, skilled, dedicated and savvy bad guy out there, there were two or three others who were bumblers of the first order. They sometimes made the most stupid mistakes imaginable and didn’t succeed in bagging their intended quarry.
Unless the target was a well-known official or personality, these little failures and fiascos usually got no more than a few lines under the fold of an inside section of the international papers. Sometimes, with smaller fish, the incidents didn’t even catch the attention of the media. Moreover, in a number of ransom cases, the victim’s family and friends often kept the matter intentionally secret and away from the authorities and press. They would rather take their chances dealing directly with the bad guys than the government authorities. Sometimes they were one and the same.
Terrorists and ordinary criminals were ordinary human beings—meaning, like the rest of us, they were sometimes downright inept and bone-headed. Despite the government hype, Osama bin Laden-like terrorists weren’t that common overseas. The sky wasn’t falling regardless of what Washington’s talking–heads proclaimed or intimated on the evening news. Obviously, terrorism was a serious problem, but not one that should be pandering to public hysteria and reaping record revenues for the U.S. security industry.
I understood the phenomenon was good for the U.S. economy and created jobs, but I still believed many of our government’s responses were disproportionate to the threats. We seemed to have sent the pendulum much too far in one direction to compensate for past and current foreign policy failures. When America decided to do something, she did so with a great deal of zeal and zest by pushing her citizen’s collective balls to the wall. We wanted immediate actions and results—ASAP or sooner. Nobody could screw with Uncle Sam and expect to get away with it. We were the most powerful nation on the planet—and we could prove it! Caveat emptor, folks.
But now the terrorism tales were wagging America’s big-dogs, I believed. We needed to bring our national leadership to heel by muzzling the inflammatory rhetoric. Everyone was afraid to say that dog don’t hunt no more. Sometimes we Americans didn’t need to look abroad or under our bed for the scary bogeymen.
Jersey got up from his desk and started pacing his office. This was standard stuff when he was trying to spin something or to lie outright. He probably thought that the walking and talking bit was a more persuasive communication method with his audience of one. I’d seen him do this little ritual on more than one occasion for other, more gullible, people. It was one more indication that he was trying to scam me. We preferred saying that to the more vulgar expression of trying to bury me in bullshit. After all, we were the Diplomatic Security Service and must comport ourselves accordingly.
Jersey paused to sip his coffee and continued. Fortunately, he didn’t spill any on his heavily-starched shirt. Starched and stuffed shirts were a common sight in the building. Beth, his second wife, would surely blame me for her husband’s clumsiness.
“The ambassador’s daughter would have been sitting in the backseat of the car, if she had followed normal practice. From sketchy eyewitness reports, we have been able to piece together that her vehicle was intercepted at a narrow cross-section of road about a mile from the school—it was the perfect choke-point for a grab. Her car was cut-off by a tanker truck that pulled in front of it. The chauffeur probably didn’t have enough room to perform a bootleg or J-turn maneuver to escape—even if he knew how to execute one in the first place.
“Three bad guys popped open the front passenger door with a jaws-of-life rig. The GPS device secreted in the vehicle activated and alerted the embassy security office, but by the time the cops arrived at the scene, it was much too late—the embassy driver and the ambassador’s daughter had been kidnapped. The entire operation took about four minutes—these guys were damned good. As far as we can tell, there were no amateurs involved in this grab-and-run operation—other than the chauffeur.”
“Any ransom demands so far?” I inquired.
“No, not yet,” he replied. “We have not had any contact from the kidnappers. We’re obviously expecting something in the way of demands, but no communication at this point.” “The proof of life factor comes into play too—as you damn well know.”
I let Jersey ramble on since I was interested in seeing how far he could push my envelope before I could no longer remain stationary. I didn’t doubt the fact that the ambassador’s daughter had been kidnapped—CNN had already carried the story during its early morning news shows. What had me wondering was the fine print of the story that Jersey wasn’t disclosing. His description was too much of a vanilla rendition of an event that was grabbing headlines around the world. Yet, he described the incident in a pretty bland, straight-forward manner as though it were just another routine matter.
Jersey’s voice hadn’t modulated much in his telling of the story and his emotions were much too controlled given the circumstances. I would have been bouncing off the walls if I had any resiliency left at my age. That fact alone suggested that he wasn’t telling me everything. It meant he considered the incident to be a serious, potentially career-limiting, event. In other words, he was scared shitless, but couldn’t admit it.
As DS’s Director of Investigations, he was the man on the spot to make things better. Ideally, making them better meant recovering the ambassador’s daughter—alive and in good health. Making things second better meant finding a credible scapegoat to lay things off on if the investigation didn’t go well. I had been in his spot for several years before retiring and knew how hot the seat he was occupying could get. I also clearly understood my new role—Avery the Goat Boy.
“Jersey, why do I feel like I’m not getting the truth, the whole truth---and nothing but the truth from you?” I pointedly asked. I didn’t add ‘so help me God’ to the question. That would have been rude and totally pointless.
“It’s the old need-to-know principle at play Avery,” he responded. “You know the rules: you don’t get any more information than necessary to do your job. Given the enormous sensitivity, media interest and speculation swirling around, I don’t want you inadvertently blabbing anything to anyone. This is top secret, hush-hush stuff. By that, I mean you’re duty bound to keep your fucking mouth shut.”
“You’ll be further briefed on the case and what’s expected of you when you get to post. Until then, that’s all the information you’re getting from HQ. You either go with the flow or you don’t go at all—it’s your choice.”
“But why me?” I plaintively whined. “There are several experienced agents at post who can certainly do the job. In fact, they’d probably do a better job since they’re already familiar with the local scene and circumstances.”
“Avery, that’s precisely the problem—they’re too damn close to the situation. They are likely to be called before the department’s Accountability Review Board—if one is convened. We need someone who’s not connected with the case in any way, shape, or form. We have to use the ‘odd man out’ strategy on this one.”
“We need to send someone we can depend on—someone who won’t spin the facts and circumstances of the incident—someone who already has a valid multiple-entry visa for India. As I recall, you have a current visa from your last trip to the region and you’re definitely the oddest person I could think of—so that’s why you’re here.
“I’m not sure about the man part, but I guess I can’t have everything,” he snickered.
Jersey was a gentleman through-and-through because he politely covered his mouth while giggling like a schoolgirl. Displaying good form and manners in front of a subordinate was an important attribute and career builder in the State Department.
I told him to go screw himself—if he could find his ass with either hand. I mentioned that if he needed any help, he could call in his stud bitch admin assistant to give a firm shove. I noticed that it was the first time Jersey had laughed during our meeting—he must have had some anal retentive hope that things would turn out okay for him in the end.
“So what’s my role in all of this?” I asked. “Playing the teat on the bull or perhaps something more practical that I can actually milk for a change?” I uttered—thinking I might have cowed him with my clever bons mots. I can’t help the puns and word play because real actions and decisions might have unintended consequences. Those could be career limiting or deadly if you weren’t careful, I mused.
Regardless, Jersey deftly sidestepped my bull crap.“You will serve as the principal liaison officer between the local authorities and the embassy. As such, your role will be to coordinate the flow of investigative information back and forth between our government and the Indian authorities. That means the facilitation of any requests from the GOI for technical support and assistance. You will also control and disseminate all case information among the interested agencies at post. Bottom line?—you will be the point man for the U.S. government in the investigation of this incident.
“However, you will not—under any circumstances—put on your gumshoes and beat the bushes or the pavement for the bad guys. You will not play the hero in this drama—no Lone Ranger stuff this time. Do you hear me Avery?”
Jersey was getting red in the face. It was obvious that his blood pressure was peaking. Maybe I could push him over the edge and stroke-him out.
Sometimes collegiality was a fickle and feckless thing among those who protect and serve.
“Loud and clear, boss man—ten-four and five by five,” I replied by the numbers.
Jersey sat down and was quiet. He looked emotionally drained and probably felt like shit on a shoe. I don’t know what that might feel like, but it must be awful by the sounds of it. Sorry, I should have simply said that he probably felt awful.
Sometimes those who protect and serve forget proper diplomatic discourse at the most inopportune times.
I thought about what Jersey had said earlier. Need–to–know principle—for Christ’s sake! I knew the principle by heart. I had been repeatedly kneed trying to know things during my DS career. My groin was so swollen that my cup had runneth over, I silently groaned. Ok, I would go with what he gave me, but I didn’t like it. I knew there was more to the story than what Jersey was telling me. I’d have to uncover the facts the old-fashioned way—by doing solid detective work.
Yeah, right. Instead, I would work the old boy/girl net for more information and some answers. The department grapevine was a good source of juicy gossip and I would tap into it. I considered my glass to be already partially full but I won’t debate the half-full or half-empty argument. I just needed to squeeze the rest out of Mother State—she had always quenched my thirst for knowledge or scuttlebutt in the past.
The meeting was over and I had just been dismissed by Jersey. I uncrossed my legs and was about to get up from the chair when I cut an enormous, wet fart. I was delightfully embarrassed by my distasteful behavior. The loud trumpet blast was tantamount to giving Jersey a not-so-subtle piece of my mind—I felt clearheaded for the first time during our meeting.
Sometimes those who protect and serve must put down their foot in order to ungraciously defend their sullied pride and stained boxer shorts.
1Chapter 2
High Noon for the Long Knives
Jimbo Rainwater was a full-blooded Sioux and a senior intelligence analyst assigned to DS’s Threat Intelligence Division. Despite being from the most litigious Indian tribe in American history, he was also a first-rate research analyst who invariably got things right.
Listening to the department drums was a favorite pastime for him and he could pick-up on their rhythms and cadences like no one else. He had the ear to discern the most subtle nuances of the drum beats and decipher their meanings. We had worked together off-and-on for years and had become friends—at least as much as possible in the department. What do you mean ‘we’ white man?
Sometimes friendship was only skin-deep for those who protect and serve.
I joked a bit with Jimbo and then got down to brass tacks. We didn’t call such things getting down to business or to the point. Those expressions were much too sissified for an international law enforcement organization with a macho image to promote. So brass tacks it was until something much sharper came along—nothing too tacky though.
“Jimbo, what are the drums saying about the Delhi kidnapping?”
He smirked and immediately shot back that it wasn’t kosher. I thanked him for his slice of Hebrew baloney. He had a wry sense of humor for a Gentile Indian. I tried asking again.
“Okay, what do you hear, wise-ass?”
Jimbo fell into his standard routine for such occasions—he did the rain-dance gig, as he called it.
Despite his name and shtick, he usually had a dry, as well as wry, sense of humor. He dropped to his knees and put his ear to the floor, listening intently for the linoleum to reveal its wisdom.
“I hear buffalo, Kemo Sabe—many angry buffalo. It sounds like a large herd thundering through the hallways of Main State. Do not stand in its path or you will surely perish,” he spoke in flawless, Native American English.
“I hear more, my pale-faced friend. I hear the Big Chiefs are extremely upset—on the warpath as my red brethren might have said without reservations. However, no one can figure out why. They’ve gotten past last week’s diplomatic snafu over the Israeli-Palestinian negotiations—so go figure. The ambassador’s daughter is not a big deal in the overall scheme of things, but the seventh floor is really uptight and nervous over the incident. The reaction’s way out of proportion to the incident in my humble, injun opinion.”
He then stood up, raised his right arm, and loudly said “How.”
As a Washingtonian, I enjoyed the Redskin’s home games so I asked “How what, you frigging moron?”
“How do you think I learned that bit of gossip?” he responded.
“I have no clue so tell me O Wise One of the Endless Prairie, I plainly asked.
“It was easy, my friend. I spoke with Andy Grafton, the shift-leader of the Secretary’s Detail earlier this morning. He filled me in on what was happening under the big-top teepee—Avery, the clowns and natives are restless.”
Jimbo’s opinions and sources were always good enough for me. What had the building so damn riled up? I wondered. I had no clue and neither did Jimbo. He said that a number of senior DS powers came into the building in the wee hours to pow-wow about the problem. I played his game of cowboys and Indians and asked how he knew that bit of trivia.
“Ugh, I checked the keycard access records when I arrived to see who else was in the building. I was curious and, as a anal intel officer, I ran a report of the entry logs. That’s how. It’s an old Injun trick like hobbling our horses so they don’t run off at night. Keep that bit of folklore under your war bonnet, White man. May the spirits of the soaring eagles peck–out my eyes if I’m not telling the truthfully.”
I told him not to worry—he was already a bonafide pecker-head in my book.
“Okay, who dun it, brave chief? What are your colleagues in the intelligence community saying about the likely culprits,” I asked.
“They have already rounded up the usual suspects on paper—al-Qaida, the Tamil Tigers, Sikh separatists, common criminals, the Pope, who knows? They certainly don’t. The list is endless—meaning they don’t have a clue. Remember Avery, these are the same people who assured us that Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction and harbored international terrorists. They also claimed that Iran was aggressively pursuing the development of nuclear weapons. It’s a sad comment, but the community lost its edge years ago when they went for the high-tech, flash-bang, intelligence crap rather than employing the old-fashioned HUMINT techniques—the human spies.
“With the Soviets becoming good capitalists, the justification and interest for human intelligence sources dried up. Nobody cared about such outdated, antiquated methods of intelligence collection—it was much too low-brow for the TECHNO-MENSA crowd in the community.”
Jimbo had gotten serious—I could tell he was on a personal vision quest. His eyes rolled up and he spoke in the disembodied voices of his ancestors. The suncatcher hanging from his desk lamp looked like it was about to vibrate. This was going to be important stuff and I listened closely to what he had to say.
“It’s now about plucking data from the ether, even though we have trouble digesting what we’ve collected. The trained linguists and analysts deciphering what we learn through these fancy methodologies either don’t exist or are in short supply. However, accurate interpretation is the tough part.
“All the data collected is largely worthless if you can’t determine the intentions of the bad guys. And you can’t discern those things without having a real, live person inside an organization to give that stuff context and perspective—a reality check. We’re now paying the price for ignoring tried-and-true intelligence collection methods and sources—shame on us. Thank God we maintained our half-vast counterintelligence skills, he snickered.”
“Avery, spying has been called the world’s second-oldest profession for good reason. We didn’t have satellite imagery and communications intercepts for much of our history. We can thank the technocrats for leading us astray and leaving us vulnerable. Why? Because human spies don’t make for high-dollar procurement awards to the private sector contractors—what President Dwight Eisenhower called the Military-Industrial Complex.
“The President was right as far as he went—but now the private intelligence and security service providers should be added to the mix to make the term more accurate. We should name it the Military-Industrial-Intelligence-Security Complex. Christ, the Pentagon wonks would love to come up with an acronym for that one. Maybe we should use the contraction MISC—short for miscellaneous, as in confused and indiscriminate.”
Jimbo was now profusely sweating and breathing heavily. I worried that he might have a heart attack if he pushed his out-of-body experience too far—but I didn’t interrupt him.
“We have a complex all right—but it’s not a good one in my opinion. The government has outsourced many intelligence and security functions to the private sector. The jury is still out as to whether that’s a good or bad thing for our nation. Stay tuned, Avery—my guess is that Walking Small, Part II is coming to a theater in our neighborhood soon. In the film’s trailer, Sheriff Buford Pusser gets the crap kicked out of him by the bad guys—let’s hope for a better ending for America.”
I acknowledged that much of what he said rang true. We had been asleep at the switch for years when it came to accurately predicting, disrupting, and thwarting terrorist events around the world—9/11 was just one example. We sometimes picked the low-hanging fruit, but often missed the forest for the trees. We did well in apprehending the bad guy who unsuccessfully attempted to light his shoe containing explosives onboard an aircraft or nabbing a naive, kooky guy talking about assembling a dirty bomb or the bunch of idiots induced by the government to talk about bombing the Sears Tower building.
We puffed and pounded our chests in jubilation after each purported victory against terrorism. Certainly these incidents needed to be dealt with—but where was the real beef? Where were the real victories? Is that all there is as Peggy Lee kept imploring us? I wasn’t sure we were now much safer as a nation without matches aboard our aircraft and having a color chart of terrorist threat alerts to remind us we had a serious problem. Why did it seem that our leaders were color blind and in the dark about such things? Were they afraid the American public might question our nation’s foreign affairs policies around the world—and what led us to this point in our history?
Oh my God, I was on a vision quest too! I sensatory guessed.
The various federal alphabet agencies told us they couldn’t discuss such sensitive intelligence matters. But, they argued that if the public only knew about the great and wonderful things that were being done to fight terrorism we would be proud of their accomplishments. We would all sleep better at night if we only knew the truth according to our leaders. I suspect there were incidents and successes that didn’t make the news—at least I hoped that would be the case, but I’m not totally convinced. In my mind, secrecy cut both ways—it also hid failures and screw-ups. I’d rather rely on an Ambien and a glass of Zinfandel for a good night’s rest. That was just me—I tended to wax cynically and sarcastically in my waning years.
I readily acknowledged that my sage insights into the world’s problems grew after each glass of wine—my car ran a lot smoother too after I threw back a few. Let me move to the bottom line—Opinions are like assholes—everyone’s got one, as the saying went. Full disclosure was important in my business, so I would gladly show you mine by bending over. Please ignore the ‘roids—I’d been reamed so many times in my career that I was now a little sensitive in that nether region.
Sometimes the pain was so bad that those who protect and serve couldn’t always backslide on the job.
Jimbo awakened from his dreamlike state and changed horses in the middle of the stream. That wasn’t a safe thing to do unless you were a confident Native American.
“The department touts and wags are already betting that a board of inquiry will be convened over this one. They’re once again putting their carts before their horses. I guess that’s an old White-man trick, my brother, so their horses don’t run off in the middle of the night. Regardless, that’s pretty much the SOP around here.
“By the way, what’s new with you Avery? I haven’t seen you around the reservation in quite awhile. From what I hear, you’ve been taking double-doses of Viagra for Mr. ED. The rumor mill has it you’ve got a big hard-on for money these days—and that’s the reason you’re returning to the DS clan with your tail tucked between your legs.”
I ignored his petty, broke-dick, erectile dysfunction joke—although it was fairly accurate.
“I was in Afghanistan for a few months and I’ve been nursing my psychic wounds at home since. Just the usual stuff,” I replied. I was actually being sincere for a change.
It was the same old, same old, routine since I returned to the States. I was bored out of my mind and welcomed the assignment for a change of pace and some sanity. I knew it was probably a no-win situation for me, but I didn’t care—I needed the money. You couldn’t spend job satisfaction or ego rewards since there were no company stores left to accept your chits. For my part, I was out of time, luck and money. I needed to buy more of those things, but I was flat broke.
I bade Jimbo a fond farewell and moved on to other parts of DS headquarters. We didn’t say goodbye when something more pompous or frivolous would suffice. It was simply the Foreign Service way of saying and doing things in a silly and pretentious manner.
Jimbo told me to leave a little wampum in the bowl at the door on my way out. I replied I would say howdy pardner to his distant relatives in Delhi. He warned me not to get scalped by the natives when buying the airport art. The banal banter never ended among friends—it was always about one-upping the other. Amerind humor really was universally funny, I thought, especially so for foreigners like the Sioux.
Sometimes those who protect and serve swallowed their Redskins with a grain of salt—the peanut and potato varieties, certainly not the Native American intelligence types.
I caught Sherry Dumas in her office. That was unusual since she was usually hanging out at the building’s front entrance—smoking and joking with her coworkers. She was a long-time smoker whose voice reflected her vice. Husky was a nice word for her condition. No, she didn’t resemble a participant in Alaska’s Ididerot race—she just had a low, raspy voice from the many years of puffing and sucking on unfiltered cigarettes. If she bummed one, she’d tear its head off before lighting it—she showed no mercy whatsoever.
I had known Sherry well, becoming smoking buddies over the many long years we worked for the Diplomatic Security Service.
We had dragged on many a cigarette, joke, and piece of gossip during that time. She vowed to retire every other week out of sheer frustration with the organization—but never made good on her threats. Although she just might, if she couldn’t control her chronic emphysema. Like me, she was a die-hard, dyed-in-the-wool smoker—the habit didn’t get any worse than that while you were still breathing.
When we attended office meetings together, I would often get to the conference room early. If she were there, I’d take a chair, sit motionless and hold the loudspeaker mic against my larynx.
I would immediately launch into my best Stephen Hawking routine—“The world sucks because the universe exists in a vacuum; astrology is an inexact science with unreadable cosmic signs at its many intersections,” I would authoritatively and glibly pronounce through my ersatz voice synthesizer. “Big bangs are to be welcomed and enjoyed; in counterpoint, the Foreign Service whimpers are merely impotent celestial implosions of no measurable magnitude or consequence.”
I had Sherry laughing so hard she would often cough up big globs of phlegm—I had to pound on her back a couple of times to help break up the congestion. That was how lasting friendships were developed in the building—it was a special time and experience for kindred spirits. I still got choked up thinking how much I made her laugh.
Sometimes those who protect and serve needed a firm pat on the back from time-to-time to help get things off their chests.
I invited Sherry to the front entrance for a smoke—she readily agreed. Sherry was the ultimate DS insider. She was, or had been, the secretary (now called administrative assistant in our PC word-speak) to the current director, and his five predecessors, of the Diplomatic Security Service. She not only knew where the bodies were buried, but knew who buried them and when—she had even shoveled some dirt over a couple of their corpses herself.
Sherry also had another special insight into the workings of the department—her sister Liz worked for many years in the Executive Secretariat on the seventh floor of Main State. (Ok, it was more properly called the Harry S. Truman Building, but that happened in 2000 after I retired, so it didn’t matter.) Between the two of them, they knew more about what was going on in the place than a dozen senior executives combined—they also had great memories and twisted senses of humor.
I lit her cigarette and then mine. I was first, and foremost, a gentleman when I tried to scam information. I inhaled deeply and enjoyed the flavor and I suspected she did the same. With the formalities over, I asked her the big question.
“Sherry, what the hell is going on with the seventh floor? The players all seem to be bouncing more than usual over the Delhi kidnapping. I can’t make any sense of it. It seems way over the top considering such things—I even heard the Secretary is jumpy.”
“Avery, it’s strange. Liz and I don’t understand what’s happening. It’s certainly a serious situation, but it’s preoccupying the seniors much more than it should. Ambassador Thurman is a respected career ambassador who has a lot of admirers and clout on the Hill. Maybe that’s why everyone is running around like Chicken Little with its head cut off.
“I’m not certain what is going on and I’ve never seen this sort of reaction before—the seventh floor is almost in a full-warp speed, panic mode. I do know the Secretary of State and his direct reports are putting a lot of effort into resolving the matter. They seem to be pulling out all of the diplomatic stops to find the ambassador’s daughter—it’s the number one priority at the moment.”
“Have you heard anything about the secretary convening an inquisition, I mean an ARB?” I asked. I had a selfish motive for this question. If a formal ARB were called, I would definitely get sucked into it at some point. Anyone and everyone who had any involvement, no matter how tangentially, were fair game to testify as to what they knew and when they knew it.
“Nothing firm,” she answered, “but the speculation suggests he’ll convene one. There isn’t much choice or wiggle room given the circumstances. There was a serious failure, a screw-up if you like, and someone or somebody must pay the price—heads must roll as decreed by the king of the seventh floor—but you can bet it won’t be his.
“In any case, it’s not going to be a pretty sight. Keep your head lowered and bowed, Avery, to avoid the axe-man that cometh.”
I wasn’t particularly worried about that happening since I kept mine firmly up my ass most of the time—it was the best way for someone to maintain peace of mind in the department.
My guess was the secretary would eventually call for an ARB to be convened to look into the circumstances of the kidnapping—he really had little choice these days. The law that underpinned the ARB would force his hand when there was serious personal injury or loss of life or substantial destruction of U.S. government property resulting from a security-related incident abroad. As usual, the law excluded U.S. military personnel and facilities located abroad under the authority of a U.S. commander.
None of the criteria had been met yet for calling an ARB, but that was because we didn’t know the current state of health of the ambassador’s daughter and the embassy driver. I didn’t think the damage to the car door would rise to the level of a substantial destruction of government property. However, if there was a hint that either victim had been harmed, the secretary would have to act. If he didn’t, then Congress could demand an explanation and hold him and the administration’s feet to the fire. It could convene its own hearing into why a department ARB wasn’t convened and, by doing so, conduct its own investigation via the congressional oversight process.
Sometimes it wasn’t in the constitution of those who protect and serve to separate the powers that be.
The ARB had some teeth and accountability features. In several ways, it functioned much like a military tribunal and a formal administrative hearing—combined. It could compel witnesses to testify under oath and could issue subpoenas under narrow circumstances. The building was betting the Secretary would act affirmatively—and soon—in order to deflect any criticism of the department and White House. Regardless, the secretary could call an inquiry anything he wanted so long as it didn’t draw unfavorable attention to the administration’s credibility. That was a golden rule in Washington—you didn’t kill the goose that laid your golden eggs or signed your biweekly paychecks.
Title III of the Omnibus Diplomatic Security and Antiterrorism Act of 1986 established the ARB and set forth its powers and authorities to conduct inquiries of security-related events and to provide for disciplinary proceedings with respect to U.S. employees who the board found reasonably caused or contributed to serious injury or loss of life or property destruction because of their breach of duty.
It was the breach of duty part that terrified every Foreign Service officer. They could now be held accountable and disciplined for not only things they may have done, but also for things they didn’t do—but should have done. Their acts of commission, omission, intermission, or nocturnal emission could cost them their jobs and, just possibly, land them in jail. Don’t worry, it would likely be a Club Fed facility located close to their home, but it still wouldn’t be a summer vacation. Their Uncle Sam was now being rude and crotchety toward his minions—he had finally lost his patience and sense of humor with the bureaucrats who served him so selflessly abroad.
I lit another cigarette and mulled over that bit of regulatory minutia—I didn’t know how to interpret what Sherry had just told me. I had no greater insight into what was going on now than before I talked to her—it was all too vague and confusing.
There certainly were a lot of smoke signals, as Jimbo might say, but little fire. I needed to get a clearer picture of what was going on but it seemed that I would have to wait to get the true skinny when I got to Delhi.
Sometimes those who protect and serve couldn’t make sense of things while inhaling the smoke being blown up their ass.
Chapter 3
Indian Summer, Before the Fall
The Continental flight from Newark to Delhi was a non-stop, 14-hour and 32-minute journey—more or less. That was a long time for a heavy smoker to survive such an torturous ordeal, especially considering the more or less. I flew business class as proper and customary under the circumstances. By the way, all DS agents had business class—it was a prerequisite for hiring. However, diplomatic acumen and surefootedness were more difficult to come by for those of us cursed with flat feet.
I checked into the Radisson Hotel near the airport but I’d find more permanent accommodations in the morning, closer to the embassy. The desk clerk must have remembered me from my earlier visit when I had transited Delhi for Afghanistan. I couldn’t be sure if he was the same guy because the Indian Indians all looked and sounded the same to me. They were more difficult to ID than their American brothers. As a bona fide, geezer WASP, how could I be certain?
The clerk immediately turned his back on me. I first thought it might be a sign of Indian respect for an older gentleman of no particular hue or religious persuasion. That thought lasted until he bent over and displayed his overly abundant butt for me to see in all its rotund glory. I didn’t think that was either polite or good form—cheeky to say the least. I didn’t know what I might’ve said or done to offend him during my previous visit. I was pretty well-behaved before. After all, I didn’t steal the linens; there were no suggestions of paternity suits being filed against me; I wasn’t overly aggressive or obnoxious and/or drunk during my stay; but most importantly, I hadn’t been publicly incontinent on the subcontinent. So what could it be, I wondered?
I pondered the question over a couple of glasses of wine in the hotel’s lobby bar. The vintage wasn’t a fine white Zinfandel, but what the hell—my sensitive palate would somehow survive the assault. Some people never realize, or learn by, their thoughtless mistakes and egregious slights. Didn’t their betters possess a highly developed sense of cultural taste and propriety? In the future, they should take better stock of such things, I silently pouted.
After waking the next morning, I retraced my steps and actions during my very short visit to Delhi. It had to be something I did when I left the hotel at check-out. In fact, there were a few rather insignificant things which might upset the sensitivities of overly touchy Indians. As the desk clerks and bellmen lined up to bid me goodbye, one guy kept wobbling his head left and right while his body remained perfectly stationary. I discreetly slipped him the business card of my chiropractor back home. It might be a stretch, but he would survive the adjustment. I did leave the chamber maid a nice tip by telling her not to vote Republican. I believed it was a thoughtful gesture and a politically correct one. I also wouldn’t have to fudge my expense voucher with a claim for gratuitous money.
In retrospect, I shouldn’t have tried to stuff peanuts into the trunk of the Lord Ganesh statue in the lobby. I thought it was a generous tip under the circumstances—a truncated one, but generous nonetheless. He might have been offended by my gesture of goodwill since some of these Hindu deities never forget or forgive. But I think Ganesh was just being aloof, trying to lord it over everyone who walked by. If he didn’t want a handout, he should have kept his nose to himself.
I had also asked the hotel doorman where I could find a good deli—either in the old or new city. Maybe he didn’t fully appreciate my quick-witted pun or nitwitted attitude—well, too bad. We all recognized that the funny bone was in the eye of the beholder. In this case, it would be the one located in the center of his forehead. I admitted I was already sick and tired of all the middling, inner eye crap I’d heard about since I arrived in India. Couldn’t these people center and accept the fact it was only a damned useless gland? Jesus, I should have been in Gaza where I’d be out of sight and mind. I paid my bill and headed to the embassy with my battered suitcase and feelings.
Bob Gelati was the embassy’s senior regional security officer, or RSO, who came from a long line of DS agents. His great grandfather was the first Chief Special Agent of the Office of Security, the precursor to the Diplomatic Security Service. His father had also retired some years earlier from the security biz and passed the family banner to Bob. He carried it proudly as the Big Bird, his DS nom de plume. Under strict government naming rules, a nom de guerre was only assigned to those people working for the Pentagon—the State Department typically got the discarded tail feathers.
Bob, the bird man, physically resembled a bowling pin with a huge, hooked schnazz in the middle of his face that looked as though it had been broken at some point and poorly set—a pronounced, bent proboscis. Of course, there was a story behind his mangled nose. For several years, Bob was the organization’s preeminent prankster. His favorite gag involved surreptitiously slipping condoms into the jacket pockets of his office colleagues.
On occasion, Bob’s Coney Island Whitefish would be discovered by the agent’s spouse, girlfriend, mother, or children. One of his coworker’s wives was thoroughly embarrassed and outraged when the dry cleaner returned a Trojan in a clear plastic bag attached to the family’s freshly cleaned clothes. The woman’s husband finally put an end to Bob’s fun over that incident. The irate agent confronted him and demanded an apology—to be conveyed directly to his spouse by Bob. Bob mistakenly declined to do so and laughed at the notion of apologizing. Moreover, he told the husband that he was damn lucky it was a new one. It was then wham, bam and thank you ma’am for Bob and his nose. The punch not only broke Bob’s nose, but also his pranking habit—for good.
Sometimes those who protect and serve were too damn nosy and nervy for their own good.
There were other quirks to deal with in the outfit as well—handles and nicknames were big deals in DS. Good, bad or indifferent, the tags tended to stick with you throughout your career. They even followed you into retirement as I could attest. Mine was an obvious choice given my name—I didn’t need to give you a heads-up to figure it out. In polite company, my colleagues would simply refer to me by my assigned initials: D.H. In a formal setting, I might be called Mr. D.H. In Latin America, it would be Senor or Professor or Your Excellency D.H., depending on circumstances. Respect was an iffy thing when you were blessed with a moniker like mine. Rodney Dangerfield had it right; the dick-headed people of this world got no respect—only repeatedly punched with comedic one-liners.
I had dealt fairly well with this little cruelty visited on me by my parents. I was furious with them for years but I’d gotten over it—more-or-less. Seriously, it really didn’t bother me so much anymore. Okay, that wasn’t exactly true—I hated my freaking name. It sounded feminine and bland to my ear and certainly not as virile as my surname. Avery? Jesus, Avery was such a wimpy name, I thought to myself. Why not Richard, then the name game would be complete? There would then be a sort of homophonic duality the Hindus would appreciate—Special Agent Dick Dick. Actually, it had a nice, masculine ring to it and the physical attribute the name projected would be wholly fitting in my case.
The Big Bird introduced his staff and, not surprisingly, most of the agents and administrative assistants were male. However, Constance McAlister was one of four assistant RSOs—the exception to the rule. She had been at post for about 18 months, just about midpoint in her tour. Constance became Connie to her friends but to her embassy colleagues, both admirers and detractors, her tag name was Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction and dissolution.
Part of the nickname derived from the fact that she was a tough lady who was born and raised on the near South side of Chicago. Constance, Connie, or Kali brooked no nonsense from her male counterparts in the office. She was professional and competent and would tear your balls off and feed them to you if you deserved it—and in arms reach at the time. She was very attractive physically, but considered by her male coworkers to be a bit butch in her dress and demeanor—DS code-talk meaning she refused to put out for any of them.
Big bird had something very nice to say about Connie—she was being assigned to assist me. As the Bird made his announcement, my mind wandered. I pondered the essence of the duality of the Hindu deities. I found the concept fascinating since it was also a well-entrenched department trait—along with the concept of duplicity. Unlike other religions, Hindu devotees were getting their money’s worth out of their gods. Most seemed to be two-fers—good and evil, sun and moon, male and female, yin and yang, black and white, day and night, Heckle and Jeckle with each persona representing opposites existing in one supreme being—Jesus, talk about tense, internal relationships!
In Kali’s case, she was the goddess of destruction and, by implication, death—with four arms, a coal-black face, and a protruding red tongue. She possessed an imposing and fearsome visage indeed. In her bipolar mode, she was a strong feminine force who was looked upon as a divine mother and protector. She represented the hope of salvation for all human beings.
She whets our spiritual appetites in this respect. Christ, I can’t stand all of these cosmic tugs of war and personality swings. Hindu gods need to center, fuse and get a sole life. Moreover, I didn’t care if she salivated while saving souls; I explosively spoke while drooling the very words down my chin.
Salivation was always nigh on the faces of those who protect and serve—if they were worth their own spit.
Connie had never been married, but my bet was she had been pursued over the years by many a guy. She earned her law degree at the University of Chicago and went on to become a street cop for the city for several years before joining DS as a special agent. Lastly, she was African American. Connie’s countenance was as black as the deepest, darkest hole in old Calcutta—her skin tone perfectly matched that of her namesake, Kali.
Thank God she didn’t have four arms, although that actually might be interesting, I noted as an embracing thought. But I’d have to wait and see about the long, red tongue thing. Regardless, I instantly liked her and looked forward to working with her. I naturally gravitated toward the black sheep of the organizational flock. I was a kindred spirit regardless of my wrinkled, lily-white skin. I couldn’t even get a decent tan when I tried—I was always white with envy.
When I had a chance, I pulled Connie aside to talk privately. I broke the ice by telling her that some of my best friends back home were of Negro, colored persuasion. I didn’t use the term African American out of respect for her Chicago heritage—the two were continents apart and geographically separable. She’d always be a Chicago-American woman in my book. I’m glad I cleared the air with her before we got off on the wrong foot.
“I’m of one hundred percent, pure African blood,” she laughed at my stupid comments. “Apparently, no light-skinned bwanas got into my ancestors loin cloths. For the record, I’m also one hundred percent Chicagoan at heart,” she quickly added.
Kali had a clever sense of humor and wit—a rare trait given that many of her colleagues were witless most of the time. Being clueless was another of their strong points.
“I’m a one hundred percent male-chauvinist WASP,” I replied. “I guess that makes us kinsmen or Klansmen of sorts. In any case, I’m glad we are working together on the case. I need someone who can point me in the right direction and keep me more-or-less on track. By the way, your DS corridor rep is first-rate and I’ve heard nothing but good things about you. Do you mind if I call you Kali—that seems to be your tag for better or worse?”
“Kali’s okay, I don’t mind, in fact, I’ve gotten used to it. On the other hand Avery, your corridor rep is less than inspiring. Word on the street has it that you’re a loner who’s unconventional—to put it politely,” she added.
“Quirky is the kindest reference I’ve heard anyone say about you,” she continued. “You seem to be a risk-taker and a legend in your own mind. However, you do have a knack for getting the job done in your own bumbling, unconventional style. I guess that’s why DS brought you out of retirement—that, coupled with the fact no other agent would willingly take the assignment. By the way, your name is your tag. Do you mind if I call you Avery rather than Mr. Dick—or something worse?”
I told her Avery would do nicely since I was a bit sensitive to pejorative names. I liked the give-and-take of our verbal exchange and her sense of humor. She wasn’t the slightest bit defensive regarding her skin color or the fact she was from the Midwest or that she was a woman. Being a DS agent didn’t seem to be an issue with her either. These were good indicators that her self-esteem was high—an important attribution in our highly esteemed biz.
By and large, I pegged Kali as one confident black bitch from America’s heartland who couldn’t find better employment. We’d do well together since I had many of the same issues to contend with—other than the black part—and, just perhaps, the bitch part too. The Chicago part was okay—the job part was totally accurate.
Wasn’t it high-time to put an end to all of the discrimination suffered by minority groups in Uncle Sam’s sweatshop? I strongly believed so. Certain species of employees needed to be protected against the bureaucratic slights of others.
Sometimes those who protect and serve must gracefully accept the fact that older, WASP males were going the way of the dinosaurs—no bones about it.
1Chapter 4
Brainstorming Without Butting Heads
Our meeting with Ambassador Matthew Thurman was held in the chancery’s Bubble on the top floor of the building. The Bubble was designed and constructed as a secure meeting room where the most sensitive conversations could be held knowing that they couldn’t be overheard by the bad guys, the opposition, or the enemy. (We were simultaneously at war with all of them these days so you had to be extra careful.)
It was also the perfect place for the department’s regional psychiatrist to meet with his or her patients. The embassy’s Marine security guards found it useful for late night trysts with their girlfriends or boyfriends. Foreign Service couples would occasionally reserve the room to openly vent their hostilities without their kids or neighbors overhearing. In its true essence, it was a multipurpose, high-tech rec room designed for ultimate, aural privacy. Moreover, it was a state-of-the-art security measure based on Yankee ingenuity and enterprise—the latest, lowest-bidder DS technology was evident in its elegant design and construction.