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The Larson Agency FairfaX, vIRGINIA |
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DICK |
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An Avery Dick Adventure Story |
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Avery M. Dick III |
Bridled Praise for Avery Dick’s Sensational Adventure Story
“Counterintelligence still thrives in the State Department’s corridors and Avery Dick is its biggest proponent. ..........Moreover, Dick’s a raw, riveting look at how an ace investigator nails the bad guys who threaten our nation’s pocketbook and principles overseas.”
— Bill Franklin, Avery’s next-door neighbor
“I should’ve breast-fed him as a baby. We’re all paying the price now. I offer my sincere apologies to his readers. Gosh, I’m so sorry Avery has turned out to be an honest-to-goodness dick.”
— Avery’s Mom
“Dick is an intense roller coaster ride of twists, turns, and bumps as Diplomatic Security Service Special Agent Avery Dick uncovers unspeakable plots and conspiracies affecting our nation’s security. Thank God America still has some heroes and patriots to look up to in this volatile time of international terrorism.”
— Saintsbury Plaza Condo Association Newsletter
“I absolutely loved Avery’s Dick. I couldn’t put it down and still get goose bumps thinking about it! It’s a tasteful and powerful feminine portrayal of our government’s foibles in the Middle East. Why is it that all the hot, middle-aged guys are either married or totally whacked-out?”
— Bambi Jurkowski, a former girlfriend
“Avery Dick has done a great disservice to our country by revealing sensitive security sources and methods in his book. The powerful investigative tools he so callously exposes could compromise our nation’s security. The State Department’s credibility is once more on the line. It should firmly bitch-slap him on the wrist for this treachery.”
— Sandy Berger, ex-national security advisor
“Avery, my kudos and congratulations on your thrilling blockbuster novel, Dick. You have the chutzpah, along with the big stones, to tell it like it is. Why can’t our leaders do the same? The public deserves better from its elected officials. For Christ’s sake, you should run for office on your platform shoes—we need more men of your stature serving our nation abroad.”
— Axel Grimes, Avery’s literary agent and publicist
“My Dick is a ‘must read’ for those who seek truth, justice and the American way. We must all do our parts in order to triumph over internationalism, foreign-borne multiculturalism and schisms in our Americanisms. We are a proud nation that can’t be conquered or divided—if we stay the right political course. God bless our great country.”
— Avery M. Dick, III, DSS Special Agent (Ret.)
1Contents
Foreword
1. Sucked Down the Rabbit Hole
2. Out of the Cluttered Closet
3. Snap, Crackle and Pop
4. Getting Skinny
5. Old Kit Baggage
6. Paladin, Paladin—Where Did You Roam?
7. Embassy Redoubt, No Doubt
8. About Face Time
9. A Casual Walkabout
10. Avery’s Day Off
11. Sharpening the Terrible, Swift Sword
12. Caper Diem
13. Rude and Crude Awakening
14. Untold War Stories
15. A Dick Goes Under Covers
16. Dangerously Cobbled Together
17. The Sticky Plot Congeals
18. Bullish by the Bosporus
19. Full Court Presage
20. King Kong Cometh
21. Incredible, Edible Swine
22. Swatting the Mosquitoes
23. Sweeping-Up Dragon Droppings
Afterword
1Foreword
I enclose my Dick for your pleasure. I’m his father so you know I’m proud of him. I created him to be a wholly cynical, sarcastic, morally bankrupt, despicable, irreverent, and misanthropic human being. I readily acknowledge that those are his better, mean-spirited angels. He’s an unrepentant boy with an attitude who can’t see beyond his own self-interests. He doesn’t care since other points of view don’t matter. There’s only one world in his universe and he defiantly straddles both its poles. He has only one redeeming quality that I’m aware of—he’s red, white and blue to the very core of his being.
That’s because I raised Avery to be a patriot and true American. He served his country for many years as a special agent with the Diplomatic Security Service, U.S. Department of State—that’s the one in Washington, DC. He’s been retired for eight years and is now returning to his old organization with a renewed spirit and a strong sense of vengeance. What he discovered in this adventure almost knocked the State Department off its high, rocking horse. The building’s Black Dragons scurried for cover. There were strong whiffs of corruption in the air and the stench led to the front steps of the United States Embassy in Kabul.
Avery’s a shrewd character who’s a compulsive prankster, punster and wild card. He chafes under the weight of rules, laws and regulations meant for others. He’s an outrageous maverick, but he’s also very good at what he does in his own bumbling, unconventional style. That’s why his former employer is recalling him to duty. He’s original, unique and a complete dick. He gleefully rubs his point in the faces of the federal government, the State Department, the Foreign Service and his own organization, the Diplomatic Security Service.
He’s a modern-day paladin, a dragon-slayer, thrusting his unerring lance into the underbelly of America’s foibles and foreign policies in Afghanistan. He does so with a certain panache and gentle touch. However, he has no qualms about impaling anything or anyone standing between him and what he wants. He takes no prisoners or bullshit—payback’s not a bitch, it’s a Dick as he says.
His gritty story portrays betrayal, deceit, deception and corruption most foul, much of which takes place before he gets out the door of Main State. He tells the tale with brutal honesty and candor. Moreover, he speaks from the bottom of his generous gut by way of his loving, arrhythmic heart.
Now that I’ve introduced my son, you need to know that he followed in my footsteps by joining the Service. When he was growing up, I encouraged him to do so. It’s still the best assisted living employer one could hope to work for. He’s a chip off that old block in the woodpile behind the woodshed in the woodland, as he might say. Please overlook his little quirks—he’s just an ordinary American like the rest of us. He’s my precious, sweet Dick and I dearly love him. I hope you do too.
Sincerely,
A.M. Dick II
P.S. Kindly forward all fatwas to Avery’s publisher. Thank you.
1Chapter 1
Sucked Down the Rabbit Hole
I was a Dick—truly. My name was Avery M. Dick III and I came from a long line of unremarkable Dicks. My parents were proud of the name and they should have been because they grew up when Dicks were respectable—Dick Tracy, Dick Cheney and Dick Nixon. It was a wholly innocent time for Dicks. However, I wasn’t so pleased with the name since it caused me torment and teasing since I was a kid. It still smarted now that I was all grown up and mature. It was also life’s not-so-little irony that I became a Special Agent with the U.S. Department of State, Diplomatic Security Service—and I was a bona fide Dick in most other respects too.
Yes, I knew—a Dick was a Dick was a Dick. Excuse me Gertrude for mangling your quote, but that was the long and the short of it and I made no apology for the weak pun. That was because it had been the story of my life—one unending pun. It was all the more funny now that I was returning to work after being retired for the past eight years. I’d been growing old and going crazy, not to put too dull a point on things. I had no money, pride or regrets, at least until now. I’d been down on my luck and life for a long time. However, I was pleased to tell you that I had just turned the famous corner we all had heard about—I should’ve peeked first.
This was my first day back as a reemployed annuitant. That was government-speak for my new appointment to Diplomatic Security. However, retread, geezer, and retard were the appellations most often used in the biz for those who returned to feed at the organization’s generous trough. Mutant was also a popular tag among the DS pundits. It wasn’t an exact rhyme with annuitant, but near enough for government work as the bureaucrats liked to remind.
Keep in mind that horseshoes, inexactitude and wordplay were serious pastimes in Washington. In the State Department, the ability to use malapropisms, double entendres, rhymes and puns was a prized trait where words—written words in particular—meant everything. Word usage was important because true actions and decisions sometimes had unintended consequences. Those could be career limiting if you weren’t careful.
Speaking of limitations, my appointment limited the amount of money I could earn, but that shouldn’t be a problem. I didn’t plan to spend any more time than absolutely necessary to get the job over with. I only signed-on for a three-month stint and I planned to stay that particular course. In any case, I had just returned to Washington to be briefed on my supposedly important overseas assignment. Yes, that was exactly how they described it—important. I supposed in some sense that made me important too.
I was here because DS was desperate. I was here because I was desperate—a good fit all things considered. Here, by the way, was the Diplomatic Security Service headquarters in Arlington, Virginia and I was waiting in the building’s lobby. I had an audience with Senior Special Agent Jersey Briggs, Director, Office of Investigations and Counterintelligence, Bureau of Diplomatic Security, Diplomatic Security Service, U.S. Department of State. I’ll leave out the United States of America part for the sake of brevity. (Just try getting all those words on a government-approved placard for the office door!) Jersey was making me wait, as usual. It was probably another case of petty payback for past tiffs. He was my junior by a few years and now it was his turn to lord it over me. Okay, yes, I knew—“What goes around.....”
The DS headquarters building was an unimposing brick and glass structure surrounded by like buildings in suburban Arlington. Indistinguishable was another descriptor. Truthfully, the words bland, plain and dull also came to mind—much like the people hiding inside. The building’s most remarkable feature was its unremarkable location, meaning it was situated well-away from State’s main flagpole. That meant the department’s Black Dragons, by conscious design and discontent, made sure that DS would never be quartered in the Main State building (or Mother State for many of us). Please remember, I’d been away from her warm, embracing arms for a while.
The perceptions of status and power were important commodities in Washington—almost as important as the real things. The Black Dragons were an institution within an institution. What was a Black Dragon? That was an all-powerful careerist in a key position in either the Civil Service or Foreign Service side of the house. They were creatures whose alliances and bonds were forged in shared experiences, exchanges of political favors, and fraternal handshakes. The Dragons, not the politicos, ran the department. They held sway over the whole machinery of the budgetary, personnel and foreign affairs processes. Their gnarled clutches embraced the institution’s body-politic tightly against their scaly bosoms—and they didn’t easily release their prey to others.
Here were some other descriptors of their scope of power. They were the puppet-masters of the government sideshow called the State Department. The term old boy didn’t quite fully describe the clout and prestige they wielded within the institution. They were modern day Knights Templar without the pretense of religiosity, the truth told. They swore loyalty and fidelity only to each other and their common vision of what the Department of State was and would forever be. A large part of that vision involved maintaining the status quo and their sinecures. There was simply too much at stake to allow the elected leadership of a given administration to decide weighty matters of state. Administrations came and went—the Black Dragons didn’t. They represented continuity and permanence in a dangerous Washington bureaucracy and an insecure world.
So why did the Dragons care where the Diplomatic Security Service was located? In a short phrase, it was pure bureaucratic animus. The two had a hate-hate relationship for many years. The very notion that the State Department, and its Foreign Service appendage, could have an international law enforcement and security apparatus in its midst was largely unthinkable in their view. That was even with the Dragons controlling DS’s budget, personnel systems, training regimens and operational programs—the whole shebang.
And yes, DS senior managers went forth every year at budget time, held out their collective cupped hands, and had the audacity to ask for more porridge. The humiliation and shame of the ritual was sometimes too great for DS to bear. However, the Dragons enjoyed the symbolic trappings of power and pomp. The pageantry dramatically reinforced and reminded the lesser department beings as to who was in charge.
For awhile, DS was led by a Judas lamb who slyly fed the organization into the Dragons gaping, hungry maws. DS was fodder for the insatiable appetites of the most reprehensible reptiles imaginable—the feeding frenzy knew no bounds. They gobbled up everyone and everything in their determined way—no one was safe. However, it was also an exercise in self-delusion and self-mutilation by the innocent babes-in-the-woods who believed the Dragons knew best. The DS rank-and-file didn’t comprehend the implications, hidden agendas and consequences at the time—they would learn painful lessons much later.
After all, the Dragons were gentlemen and gentlewomen who were global thinkers who truly believed that world strife and conflict were things that could be negotiated and tamed at the dinner table over drinks. They saw themselves as reasonable people talking to other reasonable people in reasonable language in a reasonable manner. They resolutely detested change and challenge to their perquisites and authorities. With them, there was little room for open, honest discussions, disagreements or similar unpleasantness. In the end, only a thin veneer of professional rapport existed between the Dragons and their DS underlings—mistrust was the major element binding the two of them together.
The Dragons believed that security and law enforcement activities were low-brow endeavors best left to others. Well, if you have a thorn in your side, you should at least be able to pluck it, and that’s exactly what the Black Dragons did for many decades. The Diplomatic Security Service was plucked over and over again—it was plucked long and hard.
DS’s pitiful whimpering failed to dissuade the Dragons’ from practicing their perverted sense of humor and expeditious style of management through control and containment. Maintaining their own equilibrium was of paramount importance to their survival. As a result, the security and law enforcement arm of the State Department was tightly bound in an institutional sling of its own making.
The Dragons simply looked down their scaly snouts and prescribed their own brand of astigmatic oversight for the organization. For awhile, rose-colored glasses were the fashion rage in Main State’s largely impotent corridors. These bureaucratic blinders were brazenly worn even as spectacular events continued to play-out abroad that argued for tougher security measures to protect people, buildings—and America’s honor.
DS’s treatment would change for the better over time, but not until embassies had fallen and people killed by terrorist acts caused by bureaucratic inertia and indifference. American prestige and credibility took a nosedive overseas. Adult leadership and vision were absent at the highest levels of the building. Benign neglect became the institutional watchwords of the day. We all patiently watched, but could do little to staunch the rise of international terrorism.
The Black Dragons game was about maintaining the status quo at all costs—ensuring they were safely ensconced in their loathsome lairs. The Dragons looked askance at the problems and hoped that whatever ugliness they saw disappeared of its own volition and good time.
Those who protected and served got a lot of practice whistling past graveyards in those days of yore.
Jersey Briggs—it was his name that got me—his first, not last. It wasn’t a true Foreign Service handle like Stape (for Stapleton), Bram (for Brampton) or Muffy (for whatever.) Avery Dick was certainly not a Foreign Service moniker either. I was still surprised that I was hired. Regardless, none of this stopped Jersey from playing-up the Ivy League, preppie image when it suited him. It was one of the things that I didn’t like about him—that and the fact that he was fairly competent in what he did. However, Jersey’s faux blue-bloodline didn’t jibe with the facts.
He grew up on the far South Side of Chicago. His father was a ward boss under Mayor Daley (senior) when the Democratic Party had a stranglehold on the garbage collection contracts in the city. Jersey grew up in solid upper-class comfort. His family was not just well-to-do, it was filthy rich. He went to name schools in the Midwest and was a decent athlete. I knew this to be true since I conducted his background investigation—there were no secrets here.
There were other reasons why I disliked him so much. He was a rising star and I was dwarfed in comparison. I knew that, and so did he. He made it all look so easy and I had to work hard just to keep up. He didn’t want or need a job, even in the family business. He instead opted for public service; first with the Chicago Police Department and then with DS starting at the bottom as a junior agent like most of us. However, Jersey reveled in the life he’d created for himself. He thrived on overseas assignments as an embassy attaché, as a diplomat, as a mover in social circles, as a world traveler, and as someone that shared in the accouterments of a life to be lived to the fullest.
Of course, it was a life lived at taxpayer expense for the most part, but the fact never bothered Jersey or his peers in the Foreign Service aristocracy. When other agents would talk around the water cooler about tough times growing up, Jersey would quip that he had it hard too. In fact, the house where he grew up was so large it had two kitchens—he never knew where his next meal was coming from. That joke pretty well summed up Jersey’s life—one of entitlement, privilege, and self-indulgence.
However, Jersey was now serving a hardship tour in Washington, DC and couldn’t wait to get back overseas. It could make him particularly difficult to deal with. That and the fact he had to meet with me and might be a wee bit testy. I wasn’t suggesting Jersey had balls—only that he might be crotchety as we say. He was also a very savvy operator when he wasn’t playing the slavish bozo with his superiors—that was my friend Jersey Briggs.
Sometimes those who protected and served were better at picking their noses than their friends.
I was escorted upstairs by Jersey’s assistant, Jim (fortunately not James), a fresh-faced agent probably just out of the Special Agent Basic Course and doing penance at headquarters for some minor rule infraction during training. DS didn’t tolerate the term butt boy anymore for subordinates like Jim. Such disparaging tags were much too politically incorrect in this day and age. Regardless, Jim was Jersey’s butt boy—no mistake about it. Personally, I thought stud bitch had more cachet, but that was just me—and I wasn’t being sexist in the slightest.
I didn’t get Jim’s last name, but I was friendly enough knowing at some future time and place I might have to deal with him since the old boy club, (and now girl), was still very much alive and well, thank you. Don’t confuse the old boys with the Black Dragons. They were two very distinct organizational creatures. The old boys were simply trying to survive the vast, or perhaps half-vast, bureaucracy known as the State Department. It was the old “one hand washing the other” sort of thing. On the other hand, the Black Dragons were the State Department.
Jersey greeted me cordially with a big, bullshit smile. I knew then things were not going to be good. I couldn’t think of a wise-ass remark, so we shook hands ever-so-briefly. After which, I instinctively counted my fingers. We backed into our respective corners and awaited the bell—his opening gambit. It might not be worth much in Washington, but I didn’t kneel, kiss his ring or buss him on his cheeks—there was already too much ass kissing in the outfit—I also admitted that I’d forgotten to wear my kneepads.
Jersey threw the first punch. I knew he couldn’t resist. “Avery, it’s been awhile, hasn’t it? You retired from DS in your late fifties, about right?”
“No,” I countered. “As you damn well know, I took the short exit route; out at fifty with twenty years service.”
Those were the magic numbers for an immediate pension under both the Foreign Service and Federal Law Enforcement retirement systems. Retired DS Special Agents fell into both systems. Jersey always looked for an edge, always a barb to deflate me. Did I mention I didn’t like the guy? Did I mention he was my friend?
“Still drinking and feeling sorry for your miserable self?” Jersey asked. I winced, but countered.
“Does Beth still enjoy my little gifts?” Two could play the pimping routine.
I would occasionally mail Jersey packages to him at home. These contained women’s panties and scented notes of endearment. They were gifts from fictitious lovers with fictitious return addresses. I knew his wife Beth opened all the mail. Jersey sometimes had no sense of humor whatsoever. He shot me the finger and I responded in kind. This was how close friends bonded in DS—but so much for the social pleasantries. We moved on to the main event.
Jersey continued without blushing. I couldn’t really tell if he was blushing, given his deep tan. More image preening, I’m sure.
“Avery, the director personally recommended you for the assignment,” but then added his own licks to put me in my place.
“But, I’m not sure this assignment is a good fit for you or the Service,” he continued. “You’ve been retired awhile and might have gotten a bit rusty so to speak.
“I’m not sure you’re up for the gig. One’s skills go stale, the focus wanes, and the drive slows. It’s just the normal aging thing.”
He asked if I understood what he was saying. I did understand the word gig and its variations—I’d better be careful. Okay Jersey, my friend, back to the future. Yes, I certainly knew what he meant and resented the inferences. With the Foreign Service, you don’t realize you’d been stabbed in the back and were bleeding until you fell over dead. I kept calm, but I was pissed. It wasn’t a good start to a reunion.
I blasted back—“Jersey I still have most of my own teeth, get up in the morning breathing, and can remember the names of the kids I went to grade school with. I’ve already had my calling and career. I’m just looking to pick-up some pocket change. You’ve been directed to assign me to the case so let’s cut the crap and tell me what this is all about.”
As he thought about his response, I glanced at the wall behind his desk; the Wall of Shame, as we called it back in my day. Displayed for all to behold were the framed certificates of training, the awards, the plaques; all meaningless detritus of government service and ego. They were all very impressive and extremely vain.
The walls had become an embarrassment to most—a persistent joke for others in the organization. I saw a photo of Jersey with Colin Powell, a photo of Jersey with a embassy Marine Security Guard Detachment somewhere overseas, his Award for Valor and, of course, the ubiquitous copper and enamel plaques with the State Department and Diplomatic Security Service crests handmade in Chile. These plaques had become commonplace in Washington over the years. The embassy in Santiago was kept very busy with orders from Washington. Some things never change.
I couldn’t pass up the shot. “Jersey, I see your wall has grown fat in the past few years, shame on you. Business and self-promotion must be good these days.”
Jersey responded to the effect that he at least had awards to hang on the wall. I ignored his reply while continuing to scan his office.
Some things did change. Not me necessarily, but certainly the quality of government digs these days. Yeah, I said digs. Rhymes with gigs—two could play the word games. Jersey’s office had pleasant, color-coordinated furnishings, carpeting and drapes, rather than Venetian blinds, on the windows. Gone were the gunboat gray furniture and the dingy, fly-specked fluorescent lighting.
There were no more floor ashtrays standing as solitary sentries. They’d been put into storage sometime ago—just like me. However, the interior of the office was a welcome improvement over the exterior facade. Some change was good, aside from the smoking ban. Yes, I was a smoker. Disclosure was important in my business—not too much though, just enough to get by.
Jersey slowly disclosed. He said that I’d need to get the details from the OIG, but he sketched the case outline for me.
“Avery, about two months ago, the Office of the Inspector General opened a broad fraud case against certain security contractors in Afghanistan and Iraq. Its investigation was prompted by several anonymous allegations that seem to have legs. The potential loss to the department through bribes, kickbacks bill-padding and other schemes is thought to be in the many millions of dollars. It’s not the usual chump-change crimes the IG deals with.” He then reminded me of one obvious cause of the problems.
“The department noncompetitively contracted with a number of international security firms to provide security services to State Department facilities, operations and personnel during the Middle East ramp-up. The contractors were also tasked to train host country law enforcement and security personnel.” He casually cited the President Karzai protective training program in Afghanistan as an example. Jersey continued his monologue—it was his show.
“As always, the department is especially paranoid when it comes to adverse publicity. It doesn’t want to be caught short and embarrassed. As you’re aware, it doesn’t have many supporters on the Hill and this disclosure, if true, could undercut what little support it has.
“The Hill could move programs and funds to other agencies and the department would once again lose credibility, support and confidence within the administration. It badly doesn’t want that to happen.”
Jersey pointed-out it was all about face—or dirty laundry in this instance. If there was any dirty laundry, the department wanted to be the first in town to air it. It wanted to tell everyone about the great and effective corrective actions it was now taking to prevent further instances of abuse. Internal controls would be tightened and the guilty would be punished—the rhetoric would never end. The department needed to accentuate the positive. It needed to be proactive—it needed a damn miracle to disengage this messy, tar baby.
“It’s all about spin and who gets the message out to the public first. Remember Avery, the sin is never the act itself, but not disclosing it quickly enough and making amends—mea culpa, maxima mea culpa. It’s the way Washington does business.
“You know as well as I, the IG has the lead role in the department for waste, fraud and mismanagement allegations. DS was asked to detail a special agent to the IG team given our law enforcement powers and experience in the overseas arena. It’s as simple and straightforward as that.”
He finished his spiel by telling me I was the agent being seconded to the IG. What’s the translation for me? DS, and the IG, needed someone to take the heat for them if anything went wrong during the investigation. I suspected that’s why I was being offered the big bucks and I wasn’t surprised in the slightest. Fortunately, Jersey telegraphed his punches well and he landed one last blow.
“And Avery, don’t screw-up this time. You’re representing DS and we have our own face to worry about. Best wishes pal and all that collegial crap.” He also ordered me to snap back into the system before I met with the IG.
I was pleased to see that cynicism and real-politick were still very much alive and well in the department. Yes, I understood the dynamics—actually much too well for my own good. Moreover, these things were never as simple or straightforward as Jersey just asserted.
I left after the customary and banal exchanges of unpleasantness. I didn’t let the door hit me on the way out—sometimes even I had some pride. I also didn’t bother smoking and joking with my former buds hanging at the DS-designated smoking chamber by the building’s front entrance—I was too depressed. I was also having serious third and fourth doubts about reenlisting in the cause.
I now fully understood why I was being offered this prune assignment. Nobody else in their right mind wanted to go to a hot war-zone to investigate massive contract fraud. Iraq or Afghanistan, it was all the same in terms of risk to one’s backside. If the bad guys didn’t kill you, the other bad guys would. My guess was that other agents had turned down the offer cold.
I had swallowed the bait, hook, line, and sinker—actually, the whole trawler. I was both vulnerable and conveniently expendable to the starched collars in the tailored suits. I was needy and it must’ve shown—shame on me for being so obvious and oblivious. I’d be playing the patsy to the fall guy riding the scapegoat to oblivion in this little psychodrama. The expected role didn’t get much clearer or more cynical in this job.
It made no difference to me since I wasn’t in my right mind these days anyway. I also realized that some of the things Jersey mentioned about my outdated skills were true. The remarks hurt, but they were still spot on. It had been awhile since I played in the big leagues and I doubted my ability to keep up with the heavy hitters—however, I desperately needed the money.
I also needed to be a hero at least once in my sketchy, blurred life. What to do? There would be consequences, regardless. Decision time Avery, I thought. It’s time to get off the pot, my friend. That was when I decided to carry the department’s water and go quietly overseas for the miserable pricks to do their bidding. I didn’t have much choice at this point. I certainly didn’t want my name etched on the Main State’s C Street lobby memorial wall, but I couldn’t punk-out at the last minute either—a choice Hobson’s choice.
Sometimes those who protected, served and procrastinated recognized that indecision was often decidedly decisive.
1Chapter 2
Out of the Cluttered Closet
I found Jersey to be fairly mellow under the circumstances. And yes, I did have some experience in screwing things up, as he not-so-politely mentioned. My hands weren’t always clean in those days, but I’ve kept them meticulously washed since—more-or-less.
Not-so-ironically, my first, and most embarrassing screw-up, happened in a car. Well, it actually was a Chevy Suburban, a fully-armored follow vehicle assigned to our New York Field Office. I was barely out of agents’ class when I was assigned to the protective detail for the foreign minister of Egypt who was attending the annual United Nations Assembly meeting in New York. As usual, it was held in September and that meant that all agents in the DS field offices and those hiding in headquarters were rounded up and sent to New York for the event.
There was never enough manpower to staff all the protective details, so we typically shanghaied agents from the U.S. Marshals Service and elsewhere to meet our manning quotas. The UN meeting was an annual ritual, and an important rite of passage, for DS. After all, we were rubbing elbows with the U.S. Secret Service and had to show our best face—brothers-in-arms and all of that nonsense.
Face was what we lost after what I call my youthful indiscretion. I preferred that to cock-up as the British might say since that hit too close to home. Whatever the term, I almost lost my job and got sent to the pokey as a result. Pokey, convicts and confinement were words that I didn’t like to think about in the same context—way too much detail for me. Speaking of which, the detail went smoothly enough. There was no loss of life, limb or face for the principal and the foreign minister and his entourage safely departed on-time from JFK airport.
That’s when things started to unravel. The AIC, sorry my agent-in-charge, of the detail told me we were having a wheels-up party at our hotel on Lexington to celebrate a job well done. I was instructed to pick up the party favors. I knew what that meant having heard the tales over the past few months. So, being a savvy, diligent agent, I stopped to pick up the booze—I then stopped for the ladies.
Traffic was a real bitch—rush hour on a Friday afternoon on top of it. I was on the radio cryptically advising my boss that I had the goods, but that I was in heavy traffic going nowhere fast. The conversation went on like that for the next hour or so. I was quickly losing credibility with my colleagues. After all, I was a guy who could deliver, right? Right, I delivered all right.
That was when I switched on the siren and lights and bullied my way through traffic. For the recalcitrant motorists and pedestrians, I used the vehicle’s loudspeaker system and sternly announced that this was urgent police business. Saying Special Agent, Bureau of Diplomatic Security, Diplomatic Security Service, U.S. Department of State would have been too over-the-top—even for New Yorkers. Move it or lose it, buddy—I was about to lose it. Cars pulled over, drivers flipped me the bird and life was good for a very few short moments. That was when New York’s finest pulled me over and asked what the hell I was doing. I couldn’t think of a clever explanation. I had to somehow explain away the booze and the three pros sitting in the back. The ladies were my sisters going to our mother’s wake? That didn’t count the miscellaneous weaponry—a couple of fully loaded M-4 automatic rifles and a Remington 870 pump shotgun in the well of the vehicle. That’s not to mention enough ammunition to supply a Taliban warlord for at least a year.
I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to the arresting officers. I was young and hadn’t learned the art of plausible denial yet. They hadn’t taught us such things in the Basic Agent’s Training Course. And arrested I was, for reckless driving and something to do with endangering the public order. Thank God they didn’t use my own handcuffs on me when I was hauled off to the station—I’d been humiliated enough. I also realized that I was in big trouble with the DS front office. Sometimes the suits just couldn’t take a joke. Those fifteen minutes of fame turned out to be the longest in my life.
I was the only one arrested. Neither the ladies nor the two other agents in the Suburban were charged. I was charged because I was driving. I was charged again by DS on various counts of misconduct and each complaint suggested I was living up to my name. I drew a thirty-day, unpaid vacation rather than being fired. I was damn lucky with youth on my side as a newly-minted hump agent. By the way, that word didn’t suggest I was over any bumps or humps in my short career.
The Special Agent-in-Charge of our New York Field Office smoothed things over with the cops and the charges were quietly dropped a couple of months later. However, the indiscretion did make the New York papers so I couldn’t hide from the neighbors. The New York
Post called the incident a case of Feds, Femmes and Firearms. Fortunately, the paper didn’t mention the booze since they could have also said Firewater—probably not enough F’ing space.
You’ve already figured out that I was cynical and sarcastic. People also called me quirky. I thought that was a good thing—like being called eccentric. It meant you had money and were a little crazy. You certainly weren’t destitute and crazy. Quirky was similar. It was as if there was a good quirky and a not-so-good quirky. I liked to think I was good quirky, but just somewhat eccentric. Perhaps I was eccentric, but without much money. I clearly wasn’t destitute, but maybe I was heading in that direction.
My second screw-up really tore me up. In fairness, it really wasn’t a screw-up. It was more a lack of imagination—a lack of vision on my part. It was also a sense of helplessness to do anything about it. Ok, I guessed it was more of a guilt thing. I certainly was no more prescient than any of my DS colleagues, but I still thought I could have done more. I believed the feeling was universally held by all of us who experienced the angst of trying to protect the lives of friends and coworkers abroad. We could be a very introspective, brooding bunch by nature. Those who protected and served also had good memories.
In January 1981, the U.S. ambassador to Kenya presided at a ribbon-cutting ceremony commemorating the opening of the new chancery in downtown Nairobi. It was held on the front steps of the new building. I was there and listened and observed. Trevor Devol was a career ambassador, not a politico. What was the difference you ask? Career ambassadors were Foreign Service officers who came up the ranks by serving their time at the many shit-holes of this world. Political appointees were typically rank shits who served the political system through generous campaign contributions. There was no great mystery here—the political appointees bought the plum overseas postings and the careerists got the discarded pits.
I liked and respected Ambassador Devol. I thought he was a man of great integrity, a man who’d devoted his life to public service on our country’s behalf. He was a quiet, self-effacing professional who served his country in the very best traditions of the Foreign Service. I truly believed this of him to this day.
However, his remarks at the ceremony reflected his and the department’s sentiments of a place and time that had already passed—that of a safe, rational and secure world where people lived harmoniously together in peace. He idealistically envisioned a planet devoid of war, civil strife and terrorism. He laudably wanted people to live in a place where reasonable people could talk to other reasonable people in a reasonable language in a reasonable manner. While he mouthed some of the same words, he wasn’t in any sense a dragon. Unfortunately, those places no longer existed. The department was slow to recognize the fact—we were all slow to recognize the fact.
Ambassador Devol opened his remarks by apologizing for the extensive, and perhaps excessive, physical security measures at the new chancery—the perimeter fencing, vehicle anti-ram barriers, drop-gates, guards, grill-covered windows, shatter resistant window film, ballistic doors, and the like. He then went on to talk about the cordial relations the two countries shared.
The newly-elected Kenyan President, Daniel Moi, spoke next. He told Ambassador Devol and the guests that there was no need to apologize. He said that the people of Kenya understood the United States faced serious threats from terrorism and civil disorder around the world—the facts were clear and indisputable.
President Moi then assured the ambassador that Kenya fully recognized and accepted its obligations to protect U.S. diplomatic personnel and facilities by both convention and custom. He concluded his remarks by saying that the state-of-the-art chancery would stand as a monument to the closeness of the two countries and as a model of security excellence. The news media loved it and the speeches were front page stuff in the Nation and lesser locals the following day. The entire ceremony lasted about ten minutes—the words spoken that day were as much prophetic as perfunctory.
The ceremony followed the New Year’s Eve bombing of the Norfolk Hotel in Nairobi just a few days prior. I heard the blast from my home several miles away and went to check things out. Fifteen people were killed and eighty-seven injured in the blast. The bomb was thought to be in the suitcase of a Middle Eastern looking guest. The Norfolk was a posh watering-hole and hostel for expatriates and tourists in East Africa. It was located about seven blocks from our new embassy, on the same street. Transnational terrorism had come to the quiet, unassuming country of Kenya.
There was a postscript to this event I must disclose even though the incident didn’t reflect well on DS or yours truly. It was close-of-business time at the embassy, perhaps a couple of days after the Norfolk bombing. People were edgy since nobody had pieced together all the details of the bombing and were rightly concerned there could be more incidents in the city. With that in mind, someone noticed a suitcase had been left at the back entrance to our chancery. No one knew who it belonged to or the circumstances of how it got there.
The alarm went up figuratively speaking. The front office was notified while employees exited via the front door. The area around the suitcase was cordoned off and our emergency response plan was put into motion—we called the cops. The building was quickly and safely evacuated. After all, it was quitting time, time for the first Sun Downer to be served on the patio at home. I had no trouble getting employees to leave the building.
Reserve Inspector Patrick Kennedy responded to our call for assistance. He was a full-figured British expatriate who had come to Kenya during the Mau-Mau Rebellion a number of years earlier and stayed like many of his compatriots. By the way, full-figured was a better descriptor than rotund, portly or fat—Pat certainly deserved better. He held a reserve appointment with the Kenyan cops, specifically with the Criminal Investigations Division, that meant he had a real job elsewhere and could legally carry a concealed weapon. I had met Pat on several occasions and I thought he was one of the good guys—we got along pretty well.
Pat quickly took command of the scene. He carefully examined the exterior of the suitcase for any indicators that it might contain an explosive device—he found none. It’d now been a couple of hours since the suitcase was discovered, so Pat decided to tie a rope to its handle. It was a very long rope to gently drag the suitcase from the back entrance out to the parking lot some fifty yards away.
Ok, for you terrorism and forensic science buffs, this procedure was not quite cricket. Trembler and mercury switches aside, you must remember this was Kenya in 1981. The country did not have an explosives ordinance unit or even basic tools to deal with such things at the time.
Had it been suggested, Pat would have assigned the most junior constable to open the suitcase. Technology was expensive and life was cheap in the third world. Sorry, I meant to say developing world.
In any event, the suitcase was cautiously and safely moved a safe distance without incident. Being the consummate professional, I suggested that we x-ray the suitcase. Pat agreed, but said the police didn’t have such equipment. No surprise there, but the embassy did, I thought.
I telephoned Bob Willis, an SEO assigned to the DS Security Engineering Center in Nairobi. Sorry, that was more government-speak. SEO was short for Security Engineering Officer, the people who made up the technical services arm of the Diplomatic Security Service. They were responsible for the installation and maintenance of all technical security equipment and devices installed at the embassies and consulates throughout the world.
SEOs also conducted all of the technical security countermeasures inspections for the department and other select agencies. That was more bureaucratic gobbledygook—they searched for bugs in the attic. The Nairobi center serviced all diplomatic facilities located in the top tier of the continent. I had an advantage as the ESC was collocated with us at the embassy and its staff was part of the extended family. In other words, I got preferential treatment when I needed help.
Over the phone, I briefed Bob about the situation and asked him to quickly return to the embassy, set up the portable X-ray equipment, and take some pictures of the suitcase’s contents. It was already pitch dark and there was no lighting in the parking lot, so we rounded up flashlights to illuminate the area as best we could under the circumstances.
Bob Willis took my plea for help to heart. He sped his old Ford LTD into the lot, spun around a bit and ran straight over the suitcase. Just like in the cartoons, the suitcase popped open and disclosed it contents for all to see—a pile of dirty clothes!
To make that long story short, it seemed that our security guard assigned to the U.S. Cultural Center, located close to the chancery, placed the suitcase on our back steps without mentioning it to anyone. A visitor had checked the suitcase when entering the center as per procedure. However, the guest had forgotten to collect it when he left. Our security guard didn’t want to take responsibility for the suitcase at closing time so he brought it to the chancery for safekeeping.
We decided to consider the incident to be another potential terrorist act thwarted by our security efforts. Regardless, it counted for the monthly stats—Jersey had it right. It was all about spin in the end. The incident also made the front page of the Nation the following day. I was a minor hero at the office.
Sometimes those who protected and served did eventually find the enemy. It was fairly easy. Simply look for someone with egg all over his face.
Now flash-forward to August 1998 when two suicide bombers drove a pickup truck loaded with explosives onto the chancery grounds. Two hundred twelve people were killed and about four thousand wounded in the blast. It coincided with another attack at our embassy in Tanzania. The so-called state-of-the-art fortress known as the U.S. Embassy, Kenya crumbled.
I still remembered some of those employees who were killed and injured. They were among the Kenyan national staff that made the place run. They were the ones who worked for substantially less money than their American coworkers. They were also the ones who put their lives on the line by working for Uncle Sam. I kept this memory and some guilt tightly locked-away for a long time.
We were slow to recognize that space, or stand-off distance, or setback, as we said in the trade, was our friend when it comes to selecting chancery sites. The Nairobi chancery lacked this very important security feature since it sat on a small plot of ground at a major intersection downtown. The April 1983 Beirut embassy bombing, followed by the Marine barracks bombing in the same city a few months later, should have given us all a clue.
In fairness, it did give some people a clue. The problem was again with the Black Dragons and the department’s inability to quickly and effectively react to major security situations abroad. It was all about bureaucratic inertia and resistance to change. Security truly was not part of the active agenda and remained a second tier issue at best in those days. Tax money could be better spent elsewhere, so we were told.
The situation was much like the Titanic trying to turn-on-a-dime. And the Titanic was an apt metaphor for that period of time in the department’s history—America had to watch the ship of state sink ever so slowly under its own weight.
Sometimes those who protected and served had to patiently wait for a sea change too.
1Chapter 3
Snap, Crackle and Pop
Whoever coined the term snapping-in should be drawn and quartered. More likely, the person who invented those buzz words, along with their purported meanings, scored a five-hundred-dollar bonus off the department’s Beneficial Suggestion Program, or Bennie Sug, as we called it. It wasn’t all that tedious of a process, but it wasn’t a snap either. In any case, the term survived over the years that indicated the in-processing drill for newly hired, or in my case, rehired employees. I’d been snapped into the system many years before. Snapped was probably a good word for it—although whiplashed was a better fit for me.
Snap one was taking the oath of office—the swearing-in ceremony as they say. It wasn’t really much of a ceremony. You stood in front of the human resources guy or gal, raised your right hand and promised to uphold the Constitution. Just like marriage, you said “I do” and that was it. Like marriage, it was then too late to turn back. Mind you, you don’t swear to uphold a political party, or administration, or regime, or president, or secretary of state or anyone else for that matter.
The document’s framers did well on this point although I swore I’d never re-up again. I completed all the paperwork for my reappointment; most crucially, I made arrangements for the direct deposit of my paycheck. We all needed to set realistic priorities in life—I got out the door in record time without offending anyone. Next on my dance card was a visit to Newington, Virginia.
Newington was home to DS’s firearms range. It served as the facility for firearms training for its headquarters and Washington Field Office agents. New agents initially qualified during the Basic Special Agent’s Course at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Academy in Brunswick, Georgia. They underwent rigorous training and were held to high standards. If they didn’t meet the minimum qualifications, they were washed out, on the street, and looking for another job—Kaput.
The process I underwent was euphemistically called familiarization firing or fam- fire. It wasn’t in any sense a formal qualification or test of one’s proficiency with the various DS issued weapons. It met no nationally recognized standards, not even Diplomatic Security’s own. It was a regimen designed for those who would not, or could not, undergo and pass the more rigorous qualifications for carrying firearms. It was largely developed for headquarters dons and retreads like me.
However, it served another, more important purpose: it satisfied the legal requirement allowing for the payment of a twenty-five percent premium to all DS agents who must carry firearms. That was twenty-five percent of base salary—not an insignificant sum and a very powerful motivator. The provision was called Law Enforcement Availability Pay or LEAP. And leapt they did, with diligence and regularity, whether they needed it or not or, for that matter, whether they could. Some very special agents tried to boost their premium pay by qualifying more than once in the same period—their leaps knew no bounds. They weren’t the slightest bit gun shy.
Jimmy Buckholz was my assigned firearms instructor. Jimmy was younger than my youngest son but I didn’t hold that against him—I liked my youngest son Cameron. Jimmy was both professional and respectful, with a lot of “yes sirs” and “no sirs.” He was typical of those youngsters sensitive to the unwritten rules of the old boys club. He had no clue who I was or how I might influence his career—one way or the other. That was the way it was; you simply never knew. That was why everyone was so damned circumspect around everyone else until they got to know them. Of course, when you got to know them, you either liked or loathed them. There was not much middle ground in the war on terrorism or collegiality in those days.
Jimmy assigned me a firing position and we started with the Sig P229, the standard sidearm of DS agents. I had fired the Sig before, but I’d never been all that familiar or comfortable with it. Back in the day, I was issued a Smith & Wesson Model 19 revolver; a large frame, six shot pistol. In those days, there weren’t too many shootouts at the OK Corral with the bad guys. Now everything was about firepower—overwhelming, overarching and suppressing firepower. It was the first-est with the most-est dictum at play. I did reasonably well with the Sig, although at twenty-five yards I had some trouble seeing the target silhouetted in the background. It must have been the dingy, fly-specked fluorescent lighting.
Jimmy chanted his mantra without missing a beat—load, holster, fire, load, holster, fire. He could probably do it in his sleep and most likely did. I moved onto the shoulder weapons next. First was the Colt M-4 automatic rifle followed by the Remington 870 pump shotgun, a modified Wingmaster. This was easy and routine for me, no problem, but I still couldn’t handle the kick of the shotgun with its folding metal stock. I always walked away bruised. I know, I know, keep it firmly tucked into the shoulder. Maybe I should submit a Bennie Sug to have padded butt plates installed on them. I could use the extra money. My right shoulder would be forever grateful.
After we finished, I asked Jimmy to issue me a Model 60 Smith with a speed loader and a box of ammo. Jimmy looked confused. The Sixty was a small, snub nosed .38-caliber revolver that holds five rounds. It was light, easily concealed and wholly inaccurate at any range further than ten yards. That was okay. I didn’t plan to shoot in any yards—maybe at feet though. It was never issued to agents, but it was sparingly and selectively loaned to overseas staffers of the Foreign Service.
Jimmy pointed out the drawbacks and said that wheel guns were no longer standard DS issue. I asked Jimmy what a wheel gun was. He said it was the latest tag for a revolver. Wheel gun? What was next—a Gat? God, here we go again. Jimmy found a model 60 without much trouble. The government never knowingly throws anything away—the paperwork was too onerous.
To state the obvious, I passed the fam-fire without fanfare and Jimmy signed off on my checklist. I was now officially and forever finished with my snap-in. I was an aging, old boy again. Tomorrow, I would meet with the IG’s office and finally find out what this was all about; for real—maybe.
Sometimes the NRA unintentionally blessed those nonpaying members who served and protected. I kept my jackboots highly polished just in case.
My final stop was scheduled for tomorrow morning with the IG. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach. And those who can’t teach join the Office of the Inspector General as criminal investigators. At least that was what those of us in DS used to say about our opposites in the IG’s office. You might guess there was some rivalry between the two investigative branches of the department. You’d be right, but rivalry was not quite accurate. It was more like Italian neighbors living in close quarters in the same Bronx tenement.
They greeted each other, they cursed each other and they attended baptisms, weddings, and funerals together. In the end, their kids married each other. It was a confusing, sometimes volatile relationship, but it was one that had bumped along over the years. With DS and the IG, the marriage hadn’t taken place yet, but there had been some prenuptial overtures. Nothing had been consummated though—the problem had always been deciding who ended up on top.
Dan Sykes was the current Assistant Inspector General for Investigations. He shared his title of assistant with those in charge of Audits, Inspections, and Security and Intelligence Oversight. The Inspector General of the Department of State and Foreign Service, his deputy and four assistants filled in the top of the organizational line and block chart. It was fairly simple and straightforward. However, the history of the Office of the Inspector General was much less simple and straightforward. Enter the Black Dragons—stage center. But this was a scene in which they fell on their collective swords—and they fell very hard, indeed.
The department wonks loved to use powerful, visceral language to describe things and events. In this instance, eviscerate was more cutting edge and to the point. It was a macho thing since they didn’t have tanks and bombs like their counterparts in the Pentagon. So action words must suffice. Falling on one’s sword was a good image for those who must pay the ultimate price for letting the Dragons down—for disappointing them in Dragon-speak.
For those unlucky Dragons disappointing their superiors, this meant a one year sabbatical at a prestigious Ivy League school teaching the finer points of U.S. foreign policy to those who will soon replace them in the Foreign Service. The punishment was followed by retirement and an immediate pension tied to generous, annual cost-of-living adjustments. Their final humiliation was a seat on the Board of Governors of the Foreign Service Association, the putative union for the Foreign Service establishment. Morality tales were never forgotten in the department. They were passed down through the ranks in the best anal, oral and aural traditions of the organization.
Until 1978, the Foreign Service Act of 1947 served as the basis and justification for the Inspector General function within the Department of State. The act provided the legal underpinnings for the IG’s roles, responsibilities, and authorities. The act also guided the oversight and governance of the Department of State and, more specifically, the Foreign Service. So why were these minor footnotes to State Department history so important? They were not just important—they were critical to understanding how the Black Dragons exercised and maintained their unchallenged power and influence in the department for so many years.
Gently put, the IG then was a pathetic, neutered beast being gang-humped by Dragons. It had little or no congressional oversight, independent authority or budget. It relied entirely on scraps from the seventh floor for its feeding. The Dragons controlled all inspections, audits, and major investigations of waste, fraud and mismanagement in the State Department. Independent and autonomous were not words one would even sarcastically use to describe the Inspector General’s office in those days—junk-yard dogs they were not.
The act, however, facilitated the assignment of Black Dragons to the senior slots in the IG. The top jobs in the IG back then were typically staffed by former ambassadors. Ambassadors, with some notable exceptions, were imbued at birth with superior intelligence, management acumen and organizational skills. They naturally possessed the necessary gravitas, vision, wisdom and juice to ensure that the department ran smoothly and efficiently.