Sketchy Mumbo Jumbo
Chapter 2
It was the best assisted living employer one could hope to work for: the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service. Although recently retired, I was occasionally invited back to Mother State’s generous trough now and again to take a sip. Of course, that was only when my sometimes boss, Jersey Briggs, needed a convenient scapegoat to handle the tough cases that no active duty agent would willingly accept. No surprise, this was one of those times.
Retread, alpha silverback, mutant and other similar, demeaning names were applied to those of us who returned to the fold to protect and serve our nation yet again. Reemployed annuitant was the proper term for our employment status, but that was rarely used by the rank-and-file to describe former special agents a little long in the tooth, but who still had some bite left.
Jersey was the Director of Investigations and Counterintelligence for the outfit, the same position I held before being put out to pasture. Now I had to genuflect and kiss his ring if I wanted to continue getting a bone from him on those occasions when it suited his whims and purposes. And getting boned was the apt descriptor for what I received in the one-sided relationship. We both knew our respective roles and played our parts accordingly.
Jersey’s office was on the 6th floor of the new Diplomatic Security Service World Headquarters building in Arlington, Virginia. It was a corner office with several, large windows that looked out over the Washington, D.C. skyline. I sat opposite him in a nicely upholstered chair. Now, new government offices were replete with color coordinated carpeting and walls, some real potted plants, along with wood furniture ensembles. It was a pleasant change from the cheap, mismatched stuff ordered from the General Services Administration suppliers in the prison industries. So, gone were the days of gunmetal gray furnishings that most bureaucrats in my time endured. Things had changed for the better, but not necessarily me. I was still a stubborn, unrepentant soul down on his luck and life.
Jersey thought the décor suited his so-called lofty status and importance nicely. Regardless, it was a nice change of scenery and I was envious. The only drawbacks to the furnishings were the numerous, framed certificates, awards and plaques for this or that he’d received during his career. I think I spotted his baptismal certificate hanging near one corner of the room. It was all the detritus one collected and usually kept at home to entertain the grand kids. It was called a Wall of Shame by the less pompous wags in the building. Jersey was not one of them.
***
“Richard, sit still. I need to go to the john. Oh, by the way, don’t you dare read any of the documents on my desk. You know you don’t have the tickets for the ultra classified stuff anymore. I know I can trust you to do the right thing,” smirking as he departed the office.
Of course, Jersey’s disingenuous admonishment didn’t fool me for a second. He exited so I could read what lay atop his well-ordered desk. The document he wanted me to read would be on top so I didn’t have to rifle through the stack. Sometimes Jersey could be so damn courteous and lame at the same time.
So I did as intended and sat down at his desk and began reading the cable. I knew I had plenty of time since Jersey was a notoriously constipated bureaucrat in more ways than one. Okay, so why all the drama? I wondered. The answer was obvious. He wanted to protect his butt against an allegation that he furnished highly sensitive information to an unauthorized person. I had the basic security clearances, but not the special access ones for such rarified, government skinny.
The document had more security markings than a gangbanger had tats. Top Secret/NODIS was stamped at the top and bottom of the front page. NODIS was a bit of a misnomer meaning no distribution. The term eyes only would have nicely sufficed. SCI or special compartmented information followed indicating sensitive intelligence sources and/or methods were contained in the text. Other caveats and warnings were added to the mix to indicate the document was hot property. I didn’t see a USDA meat stamp anywhere, but supposed the reading was still choice.
It was two pages in length and contained some jargon I wasn’t familiar with. No need to know as the saying goes. So there were some blanks to fill in later. But the overall gist of the cable was close enough for government work, even for a reemployed annuitant.
Project Monte Cristo was the subject line, a very apt tag for a situation that was now unfolding in the Caribbean. The U.S. was the target of a highly sophisticated and dangerous plot to destabilize U.S. interests and diplomatic relations in the region. Details of the incredibly devious scheme were sparse, but I believed Jersey would add to the context.
I already knew I had a role in this drama or I wouldn’t have been here at his beckoning. We never met on an equal footing. I was clearly the subordinate in the relationship and that suited Jersey’s ego just fine. I didn’t have one of those things or a career anymore and I needed the money since I had trouble making ends meet on my paltry government pension. Jersey understood my predicament and neediness. All-in-all, it was a mutually beneficial and highly symbiotic relationship.
***
I didn’t bother to ask Jersey how things came out during his restroom break. That was too scatological even for his taste. I’d played his game and now waited to hear his spiel. I didn’t have to wait long since he jumped right into the topic de jour with both feet.
“Cuba is up to its old tricks again, Richard. I thought with the reestablishment of diplomatic relations things might improve, but I was wrong. Perhaps Russia is supporting the op behind the scenes. We don’t know, but suspect so since it makes geopolitical sense from its perspective.”
“A disruptive campaign is being waged against us in the Caribbean and it’s starting to affect our ability to carry out important, bilateral relations. Case in point is Cuba itself. The sonic or microwave attacks against our American staffers in Havana have already caused 26 of our diplomats to be medically evacuated to the U.S. for treatment.”
I was familiar with the incidents, but let him drone on since it was his show and I was on the clock. Take all day Jersey, I mused.
“Our embassy’s intelligence operatives were targeted for the most part and that’s caused irreparable damage in our ability to collect against the Cuban government. The medical authorities concluded the symptoms suffered are real and not psychosomatic in nature. The brain chemistry of those targeted has been measurably altered by the microwaves.”
“Given the technical sophistication of the operation, we suspect Russia is responsible with the Cuban Directorate of Intelligence, the G-2, either witting or culpable as well. Of course, the Cubans deny any knowledge of the attacks. No surprise there. Why they’re doing this is anybody’s guess. Maybe to simply harm our employees or maybe it’s a technical operation designed to flood a specific area with high energy, acoustical waves in an attempt to eavesdrop on conversations. We simply don’t know what’s actually going on.”
“But Jersey, why would the Cubans cooperate in such a venture in the first place? With the reopening of relations, it seems like a counterintuitive act.”
“Yes it does, but many in our intelligence community believe the hardliners in the Cuban G-2 leadership weren’t in favor of reestablishing normal relations with the U.S. and are trying to undermine, sabotage if you will, the efforts of those Cuban officials acting in good faith. Add to that the fact the G-2 and the Russian Federal Intelligence Service have been in bed together for decades and you’ll see the logic being posited. The Cold War has heated up again it seems.”
“Now let me turn to Haiti. That’s a horse of a different color, but part of the same campaign in the region to make life difficult for us.”
I admired his metaphor and horseplay with the English language. That was highly unusual for Jersey who was a sports junkie, one who typically thought and spoke in terms of athletic teams and games. He could recite stats, scores and player names with ease.
It was also rumored he liked to place large bets on sporting events in Las Vegas and, if true, he needed to be careful during his next reinvestigation for security clearance. That activity was frowned upon in the State Department since gambling debts could make one vulnerable to coercion. The element of coercion could lead to loss of clearance. And in his case, the odds were stacked against him if the rumors were true.
“The situation with our embassy in Haiti involves the same element of disruption, but with a different modus operandi,” Jersey continued.
I liked the fact he could speak a little Latin since he was otherwise mute when it came to languages that didn’t speak to his ego and self importance. Everything else was Greek to him. And it was tough for me to stay tongue-in-cheek around him. My tongue was raw from biting it so often in his presence.
“Our foreign national employees, our Haitian staff, are being terrorized by a shadowy group called La Familie or The Family in plain English. It’s a large and seemingly well organized voodoo cult headquartered in Port-au-Prince.”
“The Family is reputed to be engaged in various illegal enterprises such as facilitating drug smuggling, extortion and kidnappings for ransom. It’s now intimidating our local employees with threats of injury or death if they continue to work for the embassy. Roughly 20 percent of our Haitian employees have called in sick or used other lame excuses to justify their absence. The Family reportedly uses voodoo charms, spells and the like, along with all the mumbo jumbo that goes with them, to frighten our staff. It’s a classic psych op and it’s working.”
“We believe the Cuban G-2 is calling the shots on the ground using The Family for its purposes with the Russian Federal Intelligence Service pulling the strings from above. Once again, the Cubans are acting as surrogates for the damn Russkies.”
“Oh, come on Jersey, voodoo in this day and age? You’ve got to be joking!”
“No, Richard, I’m serious, dead serious in this case. There are already two reports of missing locals who ignored the warnings to stay away from the embassy or suffer the consequences. Our Regional Security Officer presumes they’re dead, but the search for them continues. So this is a serious situation and that’s where you come into play. I want you to go Port-au-Prince and find out what’s going on and put a stop to it. It’s a simple and straightforward proposition and I know you need the money.”
Oh sure, easy-peasy, I thought, but he was right about the money. It was always about the money, specifically the lack of it in my checkbook. That’s the reason I came back for these dangerous assignments. My pecuniary neediness trumped my patriotism every time. I was like a penniless whore with no self esteem and I knew it.
“Why can’t the embassy handle the case?” I logically asked the obvious question.
“It could, but it can’t for political reasons alone. Things have been strained over aid issues for many months. The country’s a basket case, the poorest in the Americas, and the need for humanitarian assistance and for infrastructure development is endless. The donor nations, including the U.S., are getting tired of pouring money down the proverbial drain. Bureaucratic inefficiencies and massive corruption siphon off much of the money meant for the people. But more importantly, the embassy is leery in dealing directly with the various ministry officials since The Family has bribed many of them. They’re essentially on its payroll and would thwart any overt inquiries. That’s why you need to go undercover.”
“By the way, you have to go totally naked this time. No diplomatic passport, no immunity, no gun and no official cover. Yes, you will be an illegal so to speak and subject to the laws of Haiti. You’ll travel as a tourist on vacation in the eyes of the host government authorities and nothing more. So be damn careful and stay below the radar! We might have a tough time bailing you out if you get into a jam.”
“We’ve alerted Langley and it, in turn, has instructed its station chief to prepare an extrication plan, if it comes to that eventuality. That’s the best we can do under the circumstances. The powers have decreed that you operate independently and stay away from the embassy. So don’t look for any support there. It’s to be an undercover operation, plain and simple. It’s also the old, odd-man-out approach to an investigation. Since you were the oddest man I could think of, that’s why you’re here,” Jersey snickered at his little bon mot at my expense.
Jeez Jersey, that was a reassuring statement and slap in the face. I then began calculating how much I could make off the gig. It was more than chump change, yet I’d play the role once again!
Before Jersey told me to leave and not let the door hit me on the way out, he handed me a slip of paper with a name and telephone number. It was to be my contact in Port-au-Prince. Maybe my lifeline as well, if I got into deep do-do or voodoo.